


and the feeling coming from my bones says find a home

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Do not repost, F/M, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, my self indulgent theon and asha roadtrip au, not tagging it in the archive warnings because it's only referenced, squid sibs, this fic features my favorite dynamic: cool lesbian and disaster bi man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 106,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: When the siege of Winterfell doesn't go as planned and the wolves are at the gates, Theon makes the decision to flee to Deepwood Motte and beg for his sister's protection. He swears to stay by her side no matter what...even if it means giving up Asha's birthright to a power-hungry uncle. In a self-imposed exile to spare their lives, Theon begins to learn that home isn't always a place - sometimes, it's the people.
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy, Asha Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, Theon Greyjoy/Jeyne Poole
Comments: 147
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to another installment of Self Indulgent Fanfic Where Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts. 
> 
> If you've read my fics before, you probably know that: a) I like to blend book and show canon to suit my own purposes (this first chapter especially lifts pretty heavily from both), b) I like to age everyone up because I don't think GRRM knows what ages actually are, and c) I write these fics to be as lavishly self indulgent as possible and I have absolutely no interest in constructive criticism. If you don't like it or think you know better than me, keep it to yourself! 
> 
> I've also played fast and loose with the timeline here, but eh.
> 
> I've got the first 11.5 chapters of this fic written, but I genuinely have no idea how long it's going to be, so this will be a fun adventure for all.
> 
> Enjoy!

“My lord prince,” Maester Luwin says softly. “You must yield.”

Theon stares into the fire. There’s a full tray of food beside him, blood sausage and oatcakes and good brown ale, but he has not the stomach for any of it. “There has been no reply from my uncle?”

“None, nor from your father on Pyke.”

Of course not. Theon died in his father’s eyes a long time ago. It wasn’t just Rodrik and Maron Balon lost in his rebellion; he lost Theon, too. 

_ He never meant to name me his heir. He never meant to give me the honor and glory he heaps upon my sister. _

_ My sister. _

He should’ve listened to her. He should’ve left Winterfell when she offered to bring him back to Deepwood Motte. She was right, they were all right. He doesn’t have enough men, and he doesn’t even have the support of his father. The ironborn mislike him; they see him as a greenlander, and not the son of their king.

_ Asha’s his son now. Not me. I’m little more than a by-blow shunted to the side.  _

“Theon,” Maester Luwin says softly, and Theon knows he ought not trust the old man...but he wants to. He desperately wants to be able to trust someone in this wretched place. “Once I taught you sums and letters, history and warcraft. And might have taught you more, had you wished to learn. I will not claim to bear you any great love, no, but I cannot hate you either. Even if I did, so long as you hold Winterfell I am bound by oath to give you counsel. So now I counsel you to  _ yield. _ You have no hope of holding here. If your lord father meant to send you aid, he would have done so by now. It is the Neck that concerns him. The battle for the North will be fought amongst the ruins of Moat Cailin.”

“That may be so,” Theon says at last, and he means to say more, but he can’t seem to muster up the words. He knows as well as Maester Luwin that the Northmen will throw up hooks and ladders until they’ve taken the castle, just as Theon and his men had. He knows that if he opens the gates now and begs for mercy, the Northmen will have his head for a traitor.

He swallows. “The first time I saw Winterfell, it looked like something that had been here for thousands of years, and would be here for thousands of years after I was dead. I saw it and I thought, ‘Of course Ned Stark crushed our rebellion and killed my brothers. We never stood a chance against a man who lives here.’”

“Lord Stark went out of his way to make it your home,” Luwin says gently.

“Yes, my captors were so very kind to me,” Theon manages, his lip curling. “You love reminding me of that. Everyone in this frozen pile of shit has always loved reminding me of that. You know what it’s like to be told how lucky you are to be someone’s prisoner? To be told how much you owe them? And then to go back home to your real father…” He chokes, his eyes stinging.

“Theon, listen to me,” Maester Luwin says in that same gentle tone. “I serve Winterfell. I’m bound by oath to serve Winterfell.”

“And what’s your counsel, trusted friend?” The sarcasm doesn’t land quite the way it’s supposed to.

“Run,” the maester says simply. “We both know you can’t win. Wait for nightfall and run.”

Theon hates how tempting the idea sounds. Only a coward would run. 

_ But maybe I am a coward. Cowards live. Heroes die. _

“There’s nowhere to run to.” His voice sounds broken and wretched to his own ears. 

“There’s Deepwood Motte.”

Asha. She’d told Theon to come with her. Would she still want him to come with her now?

“I don’t know your sister,” Luwin admits. “But she seems to care for you. She left as many men as she could reasonably spare, and she entreated you to come back with her. Would she not welcome you if you came to her?”

“I’d be a coward. Running away and abandoning my post in the middle of the night. That isn’t the ironborn way.”

“Perhaps not,” Maester Luwin agrees, “But it is the way to live, is it not? What other options do you have, Theon? Hold Winterfell until the Northmen take it back and slaughter you and your men? Open the gates and plead for mercy? You could take the black. House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch, and Ser Rodrik is an honorable man who would not deny your request.”

Theon could go to the Wall. He could take the black and live. He might never be happy again, but he would live. He could have adventures, and he could see…

Jon.

No, he can’t go to the Wall. Jon would never forgive him for what he’s done. Even if he found out that Bran and Rickon are still alive, he would never forgive Theon for taking his home. 

Asha will protect him. Hadn’t he always turned to her for comfort? Hadn’t she always been there to dry her brother’s tears and put a smile on his face again?

_ Even if I am a coward, even if I run and abandon my men to the mercy of the Northmen...will she still love me? Will she still welcome me with open arms? _

No matter which way he looks, he’s surrounded by danger...but at least with Asha, there’s a chance of safety.

“My men,” he remembers. “They’ll all die, won’t they?”

“Perhaps not,” Maester Luwin says thoughtfully. “If they surrender, the Northmen may spare them, especially if they learn that you are gone.”

“But they may die.”

“They may,” Luwin agrees. “At the very least, they will remain hostages to be ransomed...but in truth, I do not think that will happen.”

Theon doesn’t, either. Even if the Northmen spared his men (and he’s sure they won’t), he knows his father won’t pay a ransom. The Northmen will know it, too. 

His mind races. It would work in his favor if they died. It would be ill-done, of course, and their blood would be on his hands...but if there are no survivors, no one need know the truth. That he was a craven little boy who fled in the night.

“How would I get out?” he finally asks, because that’s the real problem. He can’t just walk out in the middle of the night, with the castle surrounded by hundreds of men.

“There are ways. Hidden passageways built so the lords of Winterfell could escape.”

Theon didn’t know that, but why would he? He’s always been a prisoner here. Why should the Starks tell him their secrets?

“The road will be dangerous,” Maester Luwin continues. “But with a little luck, you can slip through the enemy lines, into the Wolfswood, and make your way to Deepwood Motte.”

It’s almost too much to hope. Theon finally raises his eyes to Maester Luwin, studying the old man. “How do I know you aren’t leading me into a trap?”

The maester shrugs. “You don’t. All I can give is my word.” He rests a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “I meant what I said, Theon. I cannot hate you. You may not believe that, but it’s true. I still remember when you were brought here as a child. I have watched you grow into a man, and I would see you walk away with your life.”

Theon’s eyes are stinging again. He looks away, wiping his eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re leading me into a trap. I’m going to die one way or another, aren’t I?”

“Not if I can help it,” Luwin says gently. “Think on what I have said, Theon, on what I am offering now. You needn’t die here.” He squeezes Theon’s shoulder. “If you do decide to live...come to the lichyard at nightfall.” And with that, the old man leaves Theon to brood into the fire.

Luwin is a maester, but he is also a man, and he could be laying a neat little trap for Theon. He knows where Bran and Rickon went, even if he claims he doesn’t. Theon can hardly fault him for that. He would have lied to protect them, too, if he hadn’t tried to put his sire over the family that raised him. 

_ I should have been content with the mission my father gave me. I should have told Robb. Better yet, I should have never gone back to the Iron Islands at all. I had a place at Robb’s side. What do I have now?  _

Somehow, he doesn’t think Maester Luwin is really going to hurt him, though. The old man is right; he’s known Theon since he was a boy, and he taught him almost everything he needed to know. Why should he hurt Theon?

_ Because he serves the Starks, and I took their home from them. _

But it’s like he said to the maester--it doesn’t matter if the old man is leading him into a trap. Death waits for him right outside Winterfell’s gates, and if not death here, then death at the Wall, where Jon Snow will surely find a way to kill him. 

He takes a sip of his ale. He’ll meet Luwin in the lichyard tonight. And if it’s a trap, well, at least he won’t live to regret it.

.

He passes the day in and out of a restless sleep, waking every time he hears a noise outside. He gives up on sleep and dresses two hours before sunset, taking his bow to the old inner ward. There he stands, loosing shaft after shaft at the archery butts until his shoulders ache and his fingers are bloody, pausing only long enough to pull the arrows from the targets for a second round. 

_ I saved Bran’s life with this bow,  _ he reminds himself.  _ Would that I could save my own. _

Behind him stands the Broken Tower, its summit as jagged as a crown where fire had collapsed the upper stories long ago. As the sun moves, the shadow of the tower moves as well, gradually lengthening, a black arm reaching out for him. By the time the sun touches the wall, he is in its grasp, but there is no release, no mercy. He only lingers there, waiting for a blow that may never come.

The sun has set and the stars dot the sky when he wanders into the lichyard, and finds Maester Luwin waiting for him.

“Theon,” the old man says softly. “Have you made your decision?”

“I have. I’ll escape, and go to my sister at Deepwood Motte.”

Maester Luwin bows his head. “I am glad to hear it. But first, you must promise me something.”

Of course. No good deed left unpunished, he supposes. “What is it?”

Maester Luwin hesitates. “The way I am taking you...you must not tell anyone else about it.”

“I won’t.”

“You may...see someone. It may anger you. I must ask you not to lash out at them or me.”

He furrows his brow. “Very well.”

“Very well,” the maester echoes. “Come with me.”

Theon follows him to the crypts, eyes wide as he slips into the cavern. Torches line the walls, but Maester Luwin bids him take one, and Theon realizes the way out of Winterfell must be through the very dregs of the crypts. 

_ If I must live, I must first pass hundreds of dead. _

And indeed, the maester leads him deeper and deeper into the crypts, until there are no more sconces on the wall, and the only light comes from the torch in Theon’s hand. He grips it nervously, his other hand fingering the bow over his chest. 

A sudden growl makes him start; he brandishes the torch instinctively, and sees a glowing pair of eyes narrowed in suspicion.

_ Shaggydog, _ he realizes, seeing the glint of bared fangs. 

“Shaggy, come home!” Rickon whisper-shouts, emerging from the darkness to wrap his arms around the direwolf’s neck.

There are others who emerge, too. Bran, and Summer, and Osha, and Hodor, and Meera and Jojen Reed. 

_ They’ve been in here the whole time, _ he realizes with anger and relief, and then fear, because what if this is a trap? 

Maester Luwin clears his throat. “You promised you would not lash out in anger, my lord.”

_ So he did know where they were. _

“So I did.”

Bran’s eyes are narrowed mistrustfully. “You’re leaving for true?”

“For true.” Theon lowers the torch. “When my men realize I’m gone, they’ll throw down their weapons and open the gates for your Ser Rodrik, and Winterfell will be yours again, little lord.”

“Why?” Bran demands. “Why are you giving it back now?”

“Bran,” Luwin says gently, “remember what we discussed.”

But Theon understands Bran’s anger. He owes him an explanation, doesn’t he? If the boy is letting him flee, then he deserves that, at the very least. “You asked me if I hated your family the whole time.” He clears his throat. “I never hated any of you. I loved you. I wanted to be one of you. But no matter how close I was to you, how hard I fought for Robb, everyone always saw me as an ironborn. So I decided to become an ironborn, and not a Stark.” He gives Bran a sad smile. “The thing is, the ironborn only see me as a Stark. I don’t know who I am or where I belong.” His voice catches, his eyes stinging again. “I’m sorry for taking Winterfell. I wish you good fortune.” 

He turns away, leaving Maester Luwin to hurry after him. 

.

They walk for a long time in silence, the darkness and dead Starks pressing in around them. Theon is beginning to wonder if the crypts ever end when Maester Luwin stops at last and shows him a sloping tunnel leading up and out of the crypts. 

“The Northmen will likely be in camps; you should be able to wander through without raising suspicion,” the old man tells Theon, taking the torch from him. “Just keep your hood raised.”

Theon knows all this, but some part of him appreciates the maester’s advice. Perhaps he does not bear  _ great _ love for Theon, but he must have some care for him, to bring him all this way. 

“Thank you, Maester Luwin.” He hesitates. “I’m...I’m sorry. For all of it.”

“I know.” The old man pats his shoulder, and Theon finds himself embracing the old man, blinking back tears as he hugs perhaps the only friend he has here.

“Don’t go back up to the castle,” he says suddenly, drawing back to look at the maester.

Luwin frowns. “Why not?”

“My men. The ironborn. They have no great love for you, and once they realize I’ve deserted them...they may take it out on you.”

Maester Luwin considers this. “I am bound by oath to serve Winterfell.”

“Bran is the Lord of Winterfell,” Theon reminds him. “You cannot serve him if you are dead.”

Maester Luwin gives him a small, sad smile. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll wait in the crypts until they are gone.”

“Thank you.” Theon starts to climb up the tunnel.

“Theon.”

He looks back at the old man.

“Be careful.”

Theon nods. “And you.”

.

The tunnel takes him out at the base of the northeast wall, close to the Broken Tower. There is indeed a camp surrounding Winterfell, some yards away from the walls; no one notices as Theon strides into the camp, passing tents and cookfires. He had made sure to wear plain black clothes; no yellow, no krakens, nothing that would mark him as an outsider. He strides through the camps, finally reaching the line of hobbled horses near the back. 

The grooms are gathered around their own fire, talking and laughing and drinking; none of them notice Theon take a black and white mare, slowly leading her off into the night. 

Once he’s far enough from the camp, he saddles the mare and mounts her, urging her northwest to the Wolfswood. To the Wolfswood, to Deepwood Motte, and to Asha.

.

Theon travels all night, putting as much distance between him and Winterfell as he can before he reaches a crumbling tower that was once a watchpost. He knows from many jaunts through the wood that the tower has been abandoned for years now, so he brings the horse inside and lays out a bedroll across the room.

He sleeps fitfully, but enough. By midafternoon he and his mare are on their way again; he stops once, around sunset, to buy food and ale for himself and feed for his horse at a small village he can’t remember the name of, and then they’re on their way again. It takes three days to get from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte if you’re fast and know the way, and Theon is fast and knows the way. He would forgo sleep altogether if he could, but the mare needs rest, and Theon supposes he does, too. 

He had hoped that rest and distance would calm him, but as he gets closer to Deepwood Motte, he only grows more anxious. The ironborn will have thrown down their weapons by now, and cursed him for a turncloak. The Northmen will have taken back Winterfell, and Bran will be lord there once more.

And what does that mean for Theon? Even if he lies to Asha to make his escape seem noble rather than craven, how long before the truth comes out? How long before The Northerners spread the word--or worse still, his own men?

_ She was the one who told me not to die so far from the sea. Surely she will defend me.  _

And if she does not?

.

He reaches Deepwood Motte in the middle of the night. The sentries squint suspiciously at him when he calls up his name, but they open the gate after a moment of conferral. Theon rides through, handing the mare to a bleary-eyed stableboy.

“I’ve sent for your sister,” says the ironborn who comes down to greet Theon. “The serving wenches are abed, but there’s food and ale in the kitchens.”

That’s fine by Theon, who wants to avoid other people as much as possible right now. He thanks the man, making his way into the great keep. The castle is quiet, most of the inhabitants are asleep, so Theon goes undisturbed. In truth, he is not very hungry, but he pours a cup of ale and drinks while he waits.

Asha comes down a while later, her short hair tousled and one side of her face lined with marks from her pillow. Her jerkin is laced the wrong way, and a lovebite on her neck hints that she did not go to bed alone.

“Baby brother,” she greets with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing here?”

He stands up. “Can we talk somewhere? Alone?”

“We’re alone here.”

“Someplace more private.”

She considers him. “Very well.” She jerks her head. “This way.” 

He follows her out to the staircase, where she leads him up to Lord Glover’s room. It is empty at this time of night, embers glowing in the hearth. Asha pokes the logs, breathing life back into the fire. This done, she drops into an armchair, one leg slinging carelessly over the arm. “So what brings you here at this late hour all alone, baby brother?”

He swallows. “Winterfell was attacked. We were outnumbered. You were right. I didn’t have the men.”

Asha raises her eyebrows. “And you just...what, you walked away?”

He licks his lips. “I ran.”

Her eyebrows raise even higher. “You ran? From the battle?”

“There was no battle. I…” He paces up and down, his hands clenching and unclenching his hands. “Five hundred Northmen surrounded Winterfell, with only twenty of my men to defend the castle. I knew we were done for. So I snuck out of the castle and I ran.”

“Oh, Theon.” Asha stands up. “Oh, my stupid baby brother. What have you done?”

He begins to cry. He doesn’t mean to, but the last few weeks are finally catching up with him. He feels like a scared, stupid little boy. Maybe he is just a scared, stupid little boy underneath it all. 

To his surprise, Asha wraps her arms around him.

“It’s alright,” she murmurs, rubbing his back as if he were a child again. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

“How can we?” he asks through his tears.

“I don’t know. We’ll lie. We’ll tell everyone that there  _ was _ a battle and you escaped. No one ever need know.” She pulls back to look at him. “The men you left at Winterfell...there’s no reason the Northmen would spare them, is there?”

He shakes his head. 

“Good,” she says bluntly. “Don’t get me wrong, they were good men and they deserved better, but if they can’t tell the tale, the Northmen can, and we can always say that they’re lying to make themselves sound better.”

“What if someone finds out the truth?”

“Fuck them,” she declares. “You ran. So what? Men may call you a coward behind your back, but no one will dare insult you in front of me. We’ll wait until we hear more and go from there. In the meantime, we’ll put you in a room and say that you’re wounded. No one will question you. Word will have reached us from Winterfell soon, and we will know what tale to spin.”

Theon loves her in that moment. He had hoped that Asha would defend him, but to hear her already planning, already leaping to his defense despite knowing the ugly truth…

“You are good to me, sister.”

“I know.” Her face softens. “You haven’t changed a bit since we were children, you know.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It is what it is.” She squeezes his shoulders before heading for the door. “Now get some rest. I’ll find the steward, have him set you up with a room. And some dreamwine, I think. You look like you could use it.”

“Asha.”

She looks back at him.

“I didn’t kill them. The boys. Bran and Rickon.”

“I know.” She smiles, surprising him. “What, you think I’m as big a fool as all the rest? You love the Starks, however much you deny it, and those boys were like brothers to you. Are, I suppose, for they’re still alive, aren’t they?”

He nods reluctantly. “They are.”

“There now, you see? The North won’t hate you so bad as all that once they learn the boys are still alive. They’ll still hate you, make no mistake, and they’ll laugh at you, but they won’t have a thirst for your blood.” She jerks her head. “Come on, little brother. Let’s put you to bed.”

.

The steward puts him in a room in the lower ward while the maester brings him a cup of dreamwine. Theon quaffs the dreamwine, already swaying as he eases onto his bed. 

To his surprise, Asha helps him out of his boots and jerkin, and then she lifts the covers and waits while he eases under them. She tucks him in like a child, drawing the covers up to his neck and fluffing the pillow underneath him. He thinks half of it is a jape, and half is in earnest.

“You’re safe, baby brother,” she tells him, smoothing the hair from his forehead. “Sleep well.”

He’s already half asleep, so he can’t tell if the press of lips against his forehead is real or a dream. Somehow, he thinks it’s real.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this before but unlike my other fics, this is going to be predominantly from Theon's POV, and very occasionally there will be other POV chapters.

He sleeps for days, making up for all those sleepless nights in Lord Stark’s bed and on the run. He wakes from time to time, when the servants stoke the fire and the maester feeds him more dreamwine, but his waking moments are few and far between. 

He dreams of many things in the bed at Deepwood Motte. He dreams of Robb, and Winterfell, and Bran and Rickon and even the bastard Jon Snow. He dreams of Lady Catelyn grieving, and his sister kissing his forehead, and Grey Wind’s bared fangs. 

Once he dreams that he’s with Lord Stark and the others, beheading a deserter from the Night’s Watch. When the head rolls towards him, he moves to kick it, but the face turned towards him is that of Lord Stark, and Theon screams until a river of blood pours from his throat.

When he wakes, Asha is beside him, a raven’s scroll in hand. 

“Winterfell?” he rasps.

She smiles at him. “You’re awake. It’s been a while.”

“Water?”

She takes a cup from his bedside, holding it up to his lips. The water is lukewarm now, but it soothes his parched throat, and he drinks deeply.

“Better?” she asks when he’s pulled back.

“Aye.” He licks the last drops of moisture from his lips. “Is that a raven from Winterfell?”

“No.” The smile falls from her face. “There’s been no word from Winterfell. But there has been word from Pyke.”

“Pyke?” Father. An offer to send more men? Or a command to withdraw from the North?

“It’s Father. He’s...Theon, he’s dead.”

He stares at her. “Dead? How?”

“He fell from one of the bridges at Pyke. Or so our uncle Rodrik tells us. Our other uncle, Euron, came back the day our father died, and I cannot help but think the two events are somehow linked.”

Theon can hardly comprehend it. He knows he ought to feel some sort of grief, but...he doesn’t. Not really. It’s sad that his father is dead, of course...but was he really ever Theon’s father? Oh, he sired him, of course, and had a not unkind word for him when he was a boy, but he had had other concerns, and the day Lord Stark took Theon away was the day he died in his father’s eyes. True enough, Balon had waited to begin his second rebellion until Theon came back to him, but was that really all it took? He had launched it terribly fast. 

_ He didn’t need me. He needed to know the realm was torn by war. My coming home was just an excuse. _

But for him to be murdered? By Euron, no less?

“Euron was exiled, wasn’t he?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Father wouldn’t speak of it.”

He considers this. “What does this mean?” 

She takes a deep breath. “I want to talk to you about that.”

Theon tenses. “Why?”

His sister is quiet for a moment, thinking. “You see, it’s a bit...complicated. You are our father’s last living son.” She lifts her eyes to his. “But you spent the last ten years of your life in the North. I spent those ten years sailing and fighting and commanding my own crews.”

He knows where this is going. “You want to be queen.”

“Yes,” she says bluntly. “I’ve earned it. I love you, baby brother, but I am the elder, and the men will not follow you.”

Theon isn’t hurt by the words because he knows they’re true. He just fled his own botched invasion, of course he isn’t fit to lead. And Asha...well, she’s right. While he was being raised by the Starks, she was being raised by not just their father, but every able captain in the Iron Islands. The men love her more than they’ve ever loved Theon, and they will follow her, Balon’s eldest trueborn child.

“I know it’s a lot to swallow--”

“You’re right.” He sits up. “You should be queen. You’re more ironborn than I am, and you have loyal men. And you are our father’s older child. The Seastone Chair should go to you.”

She gives him a small smile. “Then you’ll support me? When I press my claim?”

“I will,” he promises. “For all the good my support does.”

“You’re our father’s only living son; it means more than you know. Especially because if what I suspect is true, Euron will be pressing his claim, too.”

Theon considers that. “Can he?”

“Why not? If Rodrik and Maron were still alive, there’d be no question, but...well, there  _ is _ a question. Balon Greyjoy’s last living son was a captive in the North for most of his life. His other child is a capable warrior and captain, but a woman. Euron is the next eldest brother, so his claim is as strong as yours or mine.”

Theon had not considered that. “But if he was in exile…”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a more experienced warrior than either of us, and he’s spent more years sailing the seas. He may not be next in line by greenland standards, but we are ironborn, and we make our own rules.” She heaves a sigh. “I’ve written to our Uncle Rodrik and asked him to summon our bannermen in my name. There will be some who think the Greyjoys are a dying house, and their own houses should take the mantle of kingship. Old families, great families. I must have the men to support me, or I will have nothing.” She stands up. “We sail at first light.”

“When’s that?”

“A few hours. You’ve been asleep for a while. I told the men you’d escaped Winterfell; I didn’t say much more, and none of them pried. You can say whatever you like, or nothing at all. No one will give you a hard time if you stay close to me.”

“Then I will never leave your side.”

.

Theon eats and has a bath, and by the time he dresses in his freshly laundered clothes, he feels like a new man. The shame of his cowardice and the blood of those who died because of him will always be on his hands, but perhaps, with time, he can make amends. He can support Asha’s claim as queen, and serve her with the same devotion he once served Robb. The Northerners will call him a traitor, the ironborn will call him a greenlander, but Asha will know him for her brother. 

As long as he has Asha, as long as one person believes in him, nothing else matters.

.

He can feel the eyes of the other men as he makes his way to the dock _ , _ but he pays them no mind. He walks beside and a little behind his sister, and he tells himself that they are staring at her, their rightful queen--not him, Theon Turncloak.

Their cousin Quenton greets them at the dock, grasping Asha’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, cousins. What is dead may never die.”

“What is dead may never die,” Theon and Asha echo. 

“Thank you, cousin,” Asha adds. 

Quenton turns to Theon, grasping his hand as well. “I’m glad you came back to us, cousin. We feared you lost to the wolves.”

Theon smiles. Not a true smile, but it will serve. “Takes more than wolves to take down a kraken.”

“Aye,” Quenton agrees warmly. “We’ll get them back, and soon the North will be ours.”

_ He is as foolish as I was, _ Theon thinks sadly. The North cannot be taken by anyone but Northerners. He had thought being a ward at Winterfell made him different, made it easier for Winterfell and, in turn, the North to fall to him...but he had been wrong, and Quenton is wrong, too. Aye, they may harry the coast and kick up some trouble, but they are seafarers, and they lack the discipline to fight on land. If the greenlanders come after them, they will be ousted back to their ships, and worse, they may find themselves facing a Westerosi navy. 

He wonders what Asha will do when she is made queen. Continue their father’s campaign in the North? Withdraw their forces in favor of other, easier prizes? Be the first captain to successfully sail across the Sunset Sea?

Anything is possible with Asha. 

.

It’s a long journey from Deepwood Motte to the Iron Islands, but Theon doesn’t mind. Asha gives the second best cabin to Theon, right across from her own. 

He may as well have moved into Asha’s cabin; he joins her there every night to drink the hours away, and some nights he drinks too much to walk the few feet to his own bed and passes out on her floor. Asha raises no objections; if anything, he often wakes to find that his sister has wedged a pillow beneath his head and laid a blanket over him. 

“I know I did not make things easy for you when you came back,” she admits one night, when they are both deep in their cups. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”

“I never hated you,” he insists. “But Esgred humiliated me, and I was jealous when I learned of our father’s love for you...and his disappointment in me.”

“I meant to humiliate you,” she admits. “Because I was afraid. I had spent ten years becoming the son our father wanted, and there you were, his real son, sailing back to Pyke and traipsing up to the castle without a care in the world. I’d captained ships and commanded men for years, but what should that matter when I was without the one thing you had that I could never have?”

“A cock?”

“Aye. A cock.” She takes a bitter sip. “It was one thing to have Rodrik and Maron’s shadows over me every step of the way, but my baby brother, taken away when he was still a child, to return and undo all that I had done? To take my ships and my commands for the simple reason that he was there?”

Theon had not thought of it that way. “I didn’t think you could be threatened by anyone. Especially me.”

“Aye, well, once the ruse with Esgred got going, it was hard to stop,” she says wryly. “I won’t lie to you, I wanted to put an end to it sooner, but you were just…” Her lips twitch. “You were so  _ funny. _ ”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright.”

“I mean every time I said  _ anything, _ you found a way to make it...I don’t know. Most men don’t lust after pregnant women, you know?”

If he weren’t so drunk, he might find it in himself to feel embarrassed. “Some do.”

“Well,  _ apparently. _ ” She tops off both their cups. “Do you have any children? Any bastards running around Winterfell?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway. No one’s ever told me they were having my bastard.”

“You just like pregnant women?”

“I like  _ all _ women,” he clarifies, his tongue loose from the amount of ale it’s tasted tonight. “Pregnant women. Young women. Mothers. Even ugly women. I just...I like  _ all _ of them.”

She laughs. “You and I have that in common.”

He straightens up from where he’s been slumping in his seat. “You like women?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” she asks wryly. “Aye, I like women. One might even say I love them.”

He stares at his sister. “Really? You don’t like men?”

“Only sometimes. When you’re out at sea for months and there’s no woman around for miles, well, what else are you going to do?” She shrugs. “What about you? Do you like men, too?”

He turns red. “No.”

“No? Then why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” he lies. 

“You are!” She cocks her head, examining him. “Have you ever been with a man?”

He’s beet-red now. “No. Well, yes, but...it doesn’t count if there’s a woman there too.”

Asha throws back her head and roars with laughter. “Oh, baby brother! Of course it counts!”

“Fuck.” 

Asha laughs until there are tears running down her cheeks. “Oh god. I needed that.” She wipes her eyes, pouring more ale. “Well, when I’m queen, you won’t lack for women  _ or _ men. I’ll take you all over the world. Have you ever left Westeros?”

“No,” he admits. “I’d never even left the North until I rode south with Robb.”

“I’ll show you the port cities,” she decides. “Fair Isle and Lannisport, if they let us come near--they’ve always hated us, you know. Oldtown. The Arbor. I’ve never properly been to Dorne, but I hear Sunspear is as exotic as any of the Free Cities. We can go to the Summer Islands next, and then north to Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Braavos, Lorath.” She frowns. “Or maybe we’ll go north to Lorath and  _ then _ head south to the Summer Islands. Aye. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll stop in Volantis and pass the smoking ruins of Old Valyria. We can visit Yi Ti, and maybe we can even make it to Asshai.”

Theon has only heard of these places in passing. He’d never imagined that he might one day go to them. But why not? Anything is possible with Asha, even sailing to the Shadow Lands. 

“Maybe we’ll even go farther than Asshai,” Asha is saying in a faraway sort of voice, as if she’s already there. “No one knows what’s east of Asshai. No one that I know, anyway. The maesters think the Sunset Sea turns into the Shivering Sea at some point...but where is that point? Nobody knows.”

“And you think you’ll be the one to find it?”

She gives him a smile. “Why not? Men and even women have tried to sail west before, it’s true, but none of them were me.”

Theon smiles. “If you sail west, I’ll go with you.”

“You swear it?”

“By the old gods and the new.”

She shakes her head. “Ah-ah-ah. We’re ironborn, baby brother. We swear on the Drowned God and no other.”

He’d nearly forgotten that. He raises his cup. “Then I swear by the Drowned God that I, Theon Greyjoy, will follow you, Asha Greyjoy, to the very ends of the earth if you ask it of me.”

She raises her cup too, knocking it against his with a wooden  _ clack _ ; ale splashes out of both their cups, and they drink what remains in a toast. 

.

By the time they’ve reached Flint’s Cliffs, Theon gets to know all of Asha’s crew. There’s Earl Harlaw, a cousin so distant he may as well not be related to them at all, and Qarl the Maid, who was named so because he cannot grow a beard. There’s Droopeye Dale, an oarsman known to take naps between strokes, and Grimtongue, so named because he never has anything pleasant to say, but Asha says that he’s a capable sailor and a good fighter. 

There’s Six-Toed Harl, named not because he only has six toes, but because he has six toes on one foot, and is otherwise a fairly unremarkable man. Fingers, on the other hand, wears about his neck all the fingers he’s won from finger dances with other men. Lorren Longaxe is named because like Black Lorren, he has a black beard, but Black Lorren had gotten his name first, so Lorren Longaxe it was. Roggon Rustbeard has a bushy red beard, Cromm has a brown beard and pale blond hair, and Rook has a beard of brown, gray, white, and black.

There’s Rolfe the Dwarf, who is a head taller than the rest of Asha’s crew, and Hagen the Horn and his daughter, who the men only ever call Hagen’s daughter. Even Asha admits she does not know the woman’s real name.

“Hagen only ever calls her ‘daughter’, and in truth, so much time has passed I would be embarrassed to ask,” she tells Theon one night, and they both laugh until their sides hurt.

The merriment dies when they pull into Cape Kraken, though, and see the ships gathered at Ten Towers.

“They have not come,” Qarl says. “Or not enough of them.”

Asha doesn’t say anything, but Theon knows she agrees with the other man. She just won’t say it, out here where anyone could hear and begin to doubt her. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of book dialogue in this chapter; I considered skipping over it, but it's relevant to the plot. Also I really like Rodrik Harlaw.

Theon and Asha make their way up to the feast hall while the men unload the ships. 

“Maybe the others are on the way,” Theon offers weakly.

“They’re not coming. They would have been here by now.” She shakes her head. “Euron’s gotten to them, I know he has. Reminded them that Balon’s children are a girl and a greenland captive.”

“But we’re still our father’s children. How can they choose an uncle over the children?”

“Because he’s a  _ man, _ ” she reminds her brother. “You and I are just a girl and a little boy, at least the way he’s been telling it, I’ll bet.”

The feast hall is three quarters full when they arrive, or at least, it was; the hour is late, and there are more empty plates than men. Those that remain are drinking, and though they raise their cups when Asha looks their way, they make no effort to bestir themselves. The high seat is vacant, but that’s no surprise; Rodrik the Reader had never been one for socializing, from what Theon remembers. His uncle has always preferred the company of books to men. Why, Theon hadn’t even seen him when he’d been here some weeks ago. 

An old woman Theon remembers being afraid of as a child comes towards them, smiling a nearly toothless smile. “Lady Asha, and Lord Theon, I think it is?”

“My uncle is with his books?” Asha asks, sparing Theon from having to speak to the old woman. 

“Aye, where else? With the books, and Botley. He was with him too.”

Asha frowns. “I had heard my nuncle Crow’s Eye had old Sawane Botley drowned.”

“Lord  _ Tristifer  _ Botley, this one is.”

Something changes in Asha’s face. “And my lady mother?”

“Abed in the Widow’s Tower.”

Theon had not seen his mother when last he was on the islands; he makes a promise to himself to change that now that he’s here. 

Asha nods. “I must speak with Lord Rodrik. See to my crew, once they’re done unloading the  _ Black Wind. _ ”

“Yes, my lady.”

Asha squeezes her brother’s shoulder, leading him off to the Book Tower. 

There is an odd sort of charm to Pyke, a castle that has lasted longer than the islands it was built upon, but Ten Towers is newer, grander, and in truth, more comfortable than Pyke. Theomore Harlaw had built it for that purpose; after having lost three sons in the cradle at the rotting Harlaw Hall, he built Ten Towers to ensure all his progeny would live long, happy lives here. The newest of the castles in the Iron Islands, it is also one of the strangest, for each tower is different from the last. The Book Tower, where Rodrik spends most of his time, is the fattest of the ten, octagonal in shape and made with great blocks of hewn stone. Lord Rodrik is on the fifth floor, in what Theon hesitates to call a library because so much of the tower is a library. A study, perhaps.

Despite the old woman’s warning about Tristifer Botley, Rodrik is alone in his study, bending over a leatherbound book before the window. Scrolls of parchment and piles of books surround him, as varied as the towers for which the castle is named.

“Nuncle,” Asha greets, closing the door behind them. “What reading was so urgent that you leave your guests without a host?”

“Archmaester Marwyn’s  _ Book of Lost Books. _ Hotho brought me a copy from Oldtown. He has a daughter he would have me wed.” He lifts his eyes at last to the pair, blinking. “Theon.”

“Uncle,” Theon says in an even tone to match his.

“Asha said you would be coming. Does your mother know you’re here?”

“Not as yet.” 

“Let her rest.” Asha moves a stack of books off a stool and takes a seat, motioning for Theon to do the same. 

“What hour is it?” Rodrik glances out the window and does a double take. “Dark so soon? I had not noticed.” He turns back to his niece and nephew. “How did you come to be here? We heard you tried to take Winterfell.”

“He did take it,” Asha says firmly. “But the Northmen had the numbers in the end. You are well, I trust?”

Rodrik shrugs. “Well enough. My eyes grow weaker. I have sent to Myr for a lens to help me read.”

“And how fares our aunt?”

Gwynesse, Theon remembers now. She had moved to Ten Towers years ago after the death of her husband, claiming she needed to grieve at home with her family. She has been grieving more years than she was wed, at this point. 

Rodrik sighs. “Still seven years my elder, and convinced Ten Towers should be hers. Gwynesse grows forgetful, but  _ that _ she does not forget. She mourns for her dead husband as deeply as she did the day he died, though she cannot always recall his name.”

“I am not certain she ever knew his name.” Asha shifts. “Was my father murdered?” 

“So your mother believes.” 

That is something, Theon supposes, but difficult to prove when his father was on Pyke and his mother was at Ten Towers.

“And what does my nuncle believe?” 

“Balon fell to his death when a rope bridge broke beneath him. A storm was rising, and the bridge was swaying and twisting with each gust of wind.” Rodrik shrugs again. “Or so we are told. Your mother had a bird from Maester Wendamyr.” 

Asha slides her dirk out of its sheath and begins to clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails. “Three years away, and the Crow’s Eye returns the very day my father dies.” 

“The day after, we had heard.  _ Silence _ was still out to sea when Balon died, or so it is claimed. Even so, I will agree that Euron’s return was...timely, shall we say?” 

“That is not how I would say it.” Asha slams the point of the dirk into the table, startling both men. “Where are my ships? I counted twoscore longships moored below, not near enough to throw the Crow’s Eye off my father’s chair.” 

Rodrik frowns. “I sent the summons. In your name, for the love I bear you and your mother. House Harlaw has gathered. Stonetree as well, and Volmark. Some Myres…” 

“All from the isle of Harlaw...one isle out of seven. I saw one lonely Botley banner in the hall, from Pyke. Where are the ships from Saltcliffe, from Orkwood, from the Wyks?” 

“Baelor Blacktyde came from Blacktyde to consult with me, and just as soon set sail again.” Rodrik closes  _ The Book of Lost Books _ , finally accepting that he will not read again until the conversation is over. “He is on Old Wyk by now.” 

“Old Wyk? Why Old Wyk?” 

“I thought you would have heard. Aeron Damphair has called a kingsmoot.” 

A kingsmoot. The ironborn had held them in years past, whenever a king died without an heir, but there are heirs, so why a kingsmoot?

“A kingsmoot?” Asha demands. “Is this some jape, or does he mean it truly?” 

“The Damphair has not japed since he was drowned. And the other priests have taken up the call. Blind Beron Blacktyde, Tarle the Thrice-Drowned...even the Old Grey Gull has left that rock he lives on to preach this kingsmoot all across Harlaw. The captains are gathering on Old Wyk as we speak.” 

Theon and Asha exchanged surprised looks. 

“Has the Crow’s Eye agreed to attend this holy farce and abide by its decision?” 

“The Crow’s Eye does not confide in me. Since he summoned me to Pyke to do him homage, I have had no word from Euron.” 

“And my uncle Victarion?” Asha demands. “What does he make of the Damphair’s notion?” 

“Victarion was sent word of your father’s death. And of this kingsmoot too, I do not doubt. Beyond that, I cannot say.” 

Asha wrenches loose her dirk and sheathes it once again. “A bloody kingsmoot!” 

“On Old Wyk,” confirms Rodrik. “Though I pray it is not bloody. I have been consulting Haereg’s  _ History of the Ironborn _ . When last the salt kings and the rock kings met in kingsmoot, Urron of Orkmont let his axemen loose among them, and Nagga’s ribs turned red with gore. House Greyiron ruled unchosen for a thousand years from that dark day, until the Andals came.” 

“You must lend me Haereg’s book, Nuncle,” Asha says dryly.

“You may read it here. It is old and fragile,” he says, her sarcasm lost on him. “Archmaester Rigney once wrote that history is a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. What has happened before will perforce happen again, he said. I think of that whenever I contemplate the Crow’s Eye. Euron Greyjoy sounds queerly like Urron Greyiron to these old ears. I shall not go to Old Wyk. Nor should you.” 

Asha smiles. “And miss the first kingsmoot called in...how long has it been, Nuncle?” 

“Four thousand years, if Haereg can be believed. Going to Old Wyk serves no purpose. This dream of kingship is a madness in our blood. I told your father so the first time he rose, and it is more true now than it was then. It’s land we need, not crowns. With Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister contending for the Iron Throne, we have a rare chance to improve our lot. Let us take one side or the other, help them to victory with our fleets, and claim the lands we need from a grateful king.” 

“That might be worth some thought, once I sit the Seastone Chair,” says Asha. 

Their uncle sighs. “You will not want to hear this, Asha, but you will not be chosen. No woman has ever ruled the ironborn. Gwynesse is seven years my elder, but when our father died the Ten Towers came to me. It will be the same for you. You are Balon’s daughter, not his son.  _ Theon _ is his son, and Balon had three brothers besides.” Rodrik frowns. “You are quiet, nephew.”

“I have nothing to say,” Theon says truthfully. 

“You do not object to your sister’s claim?”

“No. In fact, I mean to support it.”

Rodrik raises his eyebrows. “That is most unusual, for brother to cede to sister...but I fear it will not be enough. Beneath the bones of Nagga every captain stands as equal. Some may shout your name, niece, I do not doubt it, and they will shout the louder if Theon takes up the call. But not enough. And when the shouts ring out for Victarion or the Crow’s Eye, some of those now drinking in my hall will join the rest. I say again, do not sail into this storm. Your fight is hopeless.” 

“No fight is hopeless till it has been fought. I have the best claim. I am the eldest heir of Balon’s body, and mine own brother would see me crowned before him.”

“Think of your poor mother. You are all that Lanny has left to her. I will put a torch to  _ Black Wind _ if need be, to keep you here.” 

“What, and make me swim to Old Wyk?” 

“A long cold swim, for a crown you cannot keep. Your father had more courage than sense. The Old Way served the isles well when we were one small kingdom amongst many, but Aegon’s Conquest put an end to that. Balon refused to see what was plain before him. The Old Way died with Black Harren and his sons.” 

“I know that,” Asha allows. “Does that mean we must live and die as thralls to the Iron Throne? If there are rocks to starboard and a storm to port, a wise captain steers a third course.” 

“Show me this third course.” 

“I shall...at my queensmoot. Nuncle, how can you even think of not attending? This will be history, alive...” 

“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.” 

“Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?” 

“How else? Though not till I’m done reading.” Rodrik looks once more out the window. “You have not asked about your lady mother.” 

Asha swallows. “How is she?” 

“Stronger. She may yet outlive us all. She will certainly outlive you, if you persist in this folly. She eats more than she did when she first came here, and oft sleeps through the night.” 

“Good. I will see her in the morning.” 

“She will be glad to see you...and Theon.” Rodrik looks back at his nephew. “She asks after you constantly, nephew.”

That shames Theon for reasons he cannot name. “I will go to her first thing in the morning.”

Rodrik nods. “She will like that.” He rises, fastening the shutters. “Do not go to Old Wyk, either of you. Stay with your mother. We shall not have her long, I fear.” 

Asha rises, too. “My mother raised me to be bold. If I do not go, I will spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I had.” 

“If you do go, the rest of your life may be too short for wondering.” 

“Better that than fill the remainder of my days complaining that the Seastone Chair by rights was mine. I am no Gwynesse.” 

Rodrik winces. “Asha, my two tall sons fed the crabs of Fair Isle. I am not like to wed again. Stay, and I shall name you heir to the Ten Towers. Be content with that.” 

Theon and Asha trade another look. What Rodrik is offering is more than what most uncles offer their nieces...but it is not enough for Asha.

“Ten Towers?” she repeats. “Your cousins will not like that.”

“They have lands and seats of their own.”

Asha shakes her head. “I thank you, nuncle, but I am a kraken. Asha, of House Greyjoy. It’s my father’s seat I want, not yours. No, I’ll sit the Seastone Chair.” 

“Then you are just another crow, screaming for carrion.” Rodrik sits again behind his table. “Go. I wish to return to Archmaester Marwyn and his search.” 

Asha leads the way out of his study. “He will come,” she says as soon as they are out of earshot of their uncle. “No matter what he says.”

But Theon is less sure. “I don’t know, Asha…”

“I do,” she says stubbornly. “Our uncle is a queer man, it’s true, but he will be there. For me, if for nothing else. I should speak to the men. They’ll be feasting by now. Once they start boasting about my victory at Deepwood Motte, the other ironborn will listen. Once the ironborn hear that you are supporting my claim, they will start to bend in my favor.”

They are crossing the yard when a figure steps out from behind a well. “Asha?”

Theon and Asha both reach for their dirks, but Asha relaxes once she recognizes the man. “Tris.”

Tristifer Botley, Theon assumes, the same Botley who had just been speaking to their uncle. 

“I thought I’d find you in the hall,” Asha continues.

“I wanted to see you.” 

Theon raises his eyebrows, glancing at his sister. She jerks her head, motioning for him to leave them. “Go on, I’ll catch up.”

He does, watching Tristifer Botley shift uncomfortably as he passes. He makes his way to the feast hall, where the crew of the  _ Black Wind _ and the other longships are gathered, drinking and feasting. Quenton calls Theon’s name, throwing an arm around his cousin when he sits beside him. 

“How is your uncle, the Reader?”

“Reading when I found him, and reading when I left him.” Theon watches as Quenton fills his cup with ale. 

“And your sister?”

“She was just behind me.” Theon is tempted to ask what Quenton knows about Tristifer Botley, but he doesn’t dare ask where so many others could hear. Tristifer Botley sought Asha ought in secret, and perhaps she wants it to remain that way.

His sister arrives a few moments later, looking a little annoyed; her irritation fades when she sees her crew. They greet her with happy shouts, raising their cups to her.

“Friends,” she calls, looking around at all of them, and the hall quiets as they wait for her to speak. “My nuncle the Reader informs me there is to be a kingsmoot. It would seem my nuncle Crow’s Eye means to press his claim.”

There are murmurs at this, dark looks exchanged between the men. 

“You and I know the son becomes before the uncle. And in this case, the daughter comes before the son. My claim is the  _ true _ claim. This will be no kingsmoot. This will be a  _ queensmoot! _ ”

The men roar with approval, banging fists and cups on the tables. 

“Will you stand with me?”

_ “AYE!” _

“Will you name me your queen?”

_ “AYE!” _

“Will you rest until I take the Seastone Chair?”

_ “NO!” _

“I didn’t think so! Drink deep, my friends, for you have earned it. We sail for Old Wyk the day after tomorrow, and when we make port, I want you to tell every man, woman, and child about the kraken’s daughter!”

The room explodes with shouts and cheers, and a grinning Asha takes a seat beside Theon, letting her men pile her plate high with food and fill her cup until it runs over. She drinks deeply and laughs at their toasts and japes, but as soon as the attention on her has waned, she turns to Theon. 

“You came to me at Deepwood Motte because you needed me. I need you now, baby brother. Are you with me, now and always?”

_ Am I your brother, now and always? _

He swallows. “Aye. Now and always.”

She knocks her cup against his and smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, after he’s washed and eaten, he follows his sister to the Widow’s Tower. 

“She’ll be happy to see you,” Asha tells him. “She asks after you all the time.”

Theon lowers his eyes. “I should’ve gone to her when I was last on the islands.”

Asha shrugs. “You were following Father’s orders.”

“For all the good that did me.”

She squeezes his shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” She sighs, her hand falling from his shoulder. “I have a bone to pick with her, though.”

“Oh?”

“She gave Tris permission to marry me.” Asha makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat. “It’s bad enough he had the gall to ask my  _ mother’s _ permission, but when her wits are not always about her...I know he meant well, but that was ill done.”

“Who is he to you?” Theon has to ask. “Not your lover?”

She laughs. “In his dreams. He came to foster at Pyke after you left. We were children enamored of one another. Maester Qalen walked in on us once and Father had Tris sent away to Blacktyde. I didn’t think much about it at the time; I’d gotten a bit bored of him after a while, truth be told, and I assumed he would move on as I did. But last night he confessed to me that he still loves me, that he’s been with no other woman, and that he wants to marry me.”

Theon doesn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. “It sounds like he doesn’t know you at all.”

“It does,” she agrees. “I told him as much. He was horrified to learn I’m not the innocent, fumbling girl he left on Pyke.” She sighs. “Yet we need him, for with his father and older brother dead, he’s the Lord of Lordsport. Well, in name, if not in practice. Our uncle Crow’s Eye has been selling his land to the Wynches. Still, the Botley name commands respect, even if it does not command as many men as it once did, so I must keep him close if I am to sit the Seastone Chair.”

“By marrying him?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Asha scolds. “I will not marry any man,  _ especially _ not Tris. No, he’ll play the part of my champion, because that sort of heroism appeals to him, and when the ironborn at the kingsmoot see Sawane Botley’s son and heir calling my name, they’ll take up the call too.”

They head up the winding stairs of the Widow’s Tower, so named for their Aunt Gwynesse. Theon only has vague memories of his aunt, who was always a bit touched in the head, and he’s glad that their paths do not cross today. Instead, Asha leads him straight to their mother’s room.

Alannys Harlaw had never been a great beauty, but Theon had always thought her beautiful for the sole reason that she was his mother. She’d been strong, but sweet and funny, too. 

He barely recognizes the woman sitting at the window. Her skin is pale and thin as parchment, her long hair white. She’s stick-thin, too, her shabby clothes hanging from her. 

Is this what war does to wives and mothers? The grief had been noticeable with Lady Catelyn, but it only made her look wearier. His mother looks like a ghost. 

“Asha?” the woman asks in a frail voice.

“Mother.” Asha speaks with uncharacteristic softness, bending down to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I have brought my brother Theon. You were asking for him.”

His mother’s eyes focus on him, puzzled, and for a moment he fears she does not remember him...but then her eyes fill with tears and she reaches a thin hand out to him. 

“Theon.”

He takes her hand, bending down to kiss her cheek, but her arms wrap around his shoulders with surprising strength, and Theon hugs back, feeling tears well in his own eyes.

“I knew you would return to me,” his mother murmurs, her voice thick. “I prayed...so many nights...I prayed to the Drowned God to bring my son back to me.” She’s smiling when she pulls back, tears running down her cheeks. “And here you are. My baby boy, safe in my arms.”

Theon hugs her again, unwilling to let her see his own tears, but she pulls back and rubs her thumbs beneath his eyes, drying his tears like she did when he was a little boy. She’s smiling, and suddenly, she doesn’t seem so frail anymore. 

.

Theon and Asha sit with their mother for hours, though Theon is the one who does most of the talking. He tells his mother all about his time at Winterfell, and with the Starks. At first he feared she might not want to hear about the happy times he had there, but he soon realizes that it gladdens her heart, to hear that though he was taken from her, her son still had a happy childhood where he was looked after. He tells her about Lord and Lady Stark, about Robb and Jon, Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon. He tells her about the wolves, and Maester Luwin, Farlen and Palla, Mikken and the Pooles and the Cassels. The only thing Theon does not tell her about is how he took Winterfell, and lost it. Somehow, he doesn’t think he can tell her about that folly. 

“I’m glad to hear you were treated well,” Alannys says at last, grasping his hand between both of hers. “I thought about you every single day you were gone.”

“I thought about you, too,” he tells her. “I’m sorry I did not come before--”

She shakes her head. “Your father had an iron will.” 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Asha mutters.

“He was stubborn,” Alannys allows. “All you Greyjoys are.”

“And you Harlaws are not?” Asha asks wryly. “My nuncle refuses to give up his books, my aunt still insists Ten Towers is hers by right, and my mother never gave up on her son coming back to her.”

Alannys smiles. “Perhaps you are right. We are stubborn. And you, my daughter, have inherited that from both of us.” She heaves a sigh, her smile slipping. “I hear you are to throw in your name at the kingsmoot.”

“I should not have to,” Asha says flatly. “As the Seastone Chair is mine by right. But a kingsmoot has been called, so throw in my name I shall.”

“You should not go. The Seastone Chair may be yours by right, but ‘right’ means little and less these days. You are a woman, with a younger brother and two uncles to contend with.”

“My younger brother has already agreed to champion me,” Asha reminds her. “And I would not have to contend with my uncles if they championed my cause.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alannys warns. “If it were only Victarion, you might have some hope, but Euron…” She shakes her head. “Crow’s Eye they call him, but he’s a snake, that one. He’s supposed to be in exile, but then his fleet shows up the day after your father dies? No, he killed your father, and he has every intention of taking his crown. Do you think it was a mistake that your father died while you and Victarion were mired in the North?”

Asha and Theon exchange glances.

“Aeron called a kingsmoot to give the rest of you a fair chance,” Alannys continues. “But even if your name is called, Asha, your reign will be short; Euron will see to that.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” Asha declares. “He’s just a man.”

“A dangerous man,” Alannys insists. “Stay here, daughter, I beg you. No good will come of you challenging Euron. Stay here, with me. Your uncle will not see you as a threat if you do not cast your name at the kingsmoot, and he will not take action against you.”

“He should see me as a threat,” Asha says stubbornly. “All men should.” She points a finger at her mother. “And they won’t see me as a threat if my mother is giving them permission to marry me.”

Alannys blinks. “Oh, young Botley? I told him that if you wanted to marry him, he had my blessing. I didn’t give permission, so to speak.”

Asha relaxes a little. “He seemed to think you had given it.”

“Young Tristifer has always had a habit of hearing what he wanted to hear,” Alannys says wryly. “If I told him he could not have a tart until he finished his dinner, he only heard that he could have a tart. When Dagmer Cleftjaw told him he was such a poor fighter that it was a good thing his skull was too thick to be split in two, he heard only that he would be hard to kill. When I told him he had my blessing if you said yes, he heard only that I gave him permission.”

“That’s Tris for you,” Asha says wryly. 

“I thought it was very bold of him,” Alannys admits. “After he was sent away.”

“Yes, well, he’s the Lord of Lordsport now.” Asha sighs. “What good that does him with Euron selling his lands to the Wynches.”

Alannys leans forward, taking her hand. “I say again, Asha; do not cross Euron. He will never forget it if you do.”

“I don’t want him to forget it,” Asha says stubbornly. “I want him to remember me.”

Alannys shakes her head. “You are as headstrong as any Greyjoy or Harlaw I’ve ever met. It will be the death of you, someday.”

“Maybe,” Asha says indifferently.

Alannys turns in exasperation to her son. “And you? You’re going to let your sister do this thing?”

“The Seastone Chair is hers by right,” Theon tells his mother. “What sort of brother would I be if I didn’t support her?”

“A good one,” she says bluntly. “You should encourage her to stay here, or sail far away. So long as  _ both _ of you are no threat to Euron, you will be safe.” She shakes her head. “Please don’t ask me to watch my children put themselves in danger again. I lost Rodrik and Maron, and I lost you, too, Theon. To lose you for true…” Her voice catches, her eyes welling with tears.

“I’ll be alright,” he promises his mother--but in truth, he does wonder. Euron had seemed like little more than a distant irritant, but after hearing his mother speak, he wonders if perhaps he and Asha will meet the same fate as their father if they raise their voices at the kingsmoot. They are, after all, the only things standing between Euron and the Seastone Chair. If they were to die, then it would be his without a kingsmoot. 

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Asha promises their mother. “Nor will he let anything happen to me. Right, baby brother?”

“Right,” he says, nodding at his sister. 

Alannys sighs. “It will take the Drowned God himself to protect you both. But that may be as it may be. When do you leave for Old Wyk?”

“Tomorrow. First light.”

“So soon?”

“We must,” Asha says gently. “I don’t want any...surprises.”

Their mother nods. “Very well. At least...at least spend the day with me. As much of it as you can. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“We will,” Theon promises. 

His mother gives him a brilliant smile.

.

Theon does spend the day with his mother, and even stays with her into the night. Asha leaves once or twice to see to the men and the  _ Black Wind, _ but for the most part, she stays with her mother and brother. 

Alannys clearly grows tired as the evening wears on, but she insists she’s fine, and that she’s rested plenty. 

Nevertheless, she soon begins to nod off, and Theon and Asha finally have to bid her farewell. There are tears in her eyes when they take their leave, but Theon promises that he’ll see her again.

“Words are wind,” she says. “Be careful, Theon; I cannot lose you a second time.”

“You won’t,” he tells her, but she’s right: words are wind, and just now, a storm is brewing.

.

When Theon and Asha make for the  _ Black Wind _ in the morning, they are surprised to see men on Rodrik’s  _ Sea Song _ , readying it for sea.

“Where are you going?” Asha calls up to them.

“To Old Wyk, for the kingsmoot!”

Asha grins. “I knew he would come.”

The man himself appears at the dock moments later; he catches sight of Theon and Asha’s grins, holds his head high, and goes to his ship as if he hadn’t seen them. 

“Good to have you, uncle,” Asha calls.

Rodrik acts as if he can’t hear her, but Theon thinks he can see the other man hiding a smile. 

.

The  _ Black Wind _ leads a handsome fleet to Old Wyk, but it’s nothing compared to the ships lining the shore. Every man on the Iron Islands must be gathered at Old Wyk, and many of the women and children, too. Theon sees ships and banners he knows from his childhood...among them the  _ Silence. _

The woman carved into the prow is a shapely, dark-haired beauty, but she has no mouth. It had always unsettled Theon in a way he couldn’t quite explain when he was younger, the thought of a woman with no mouth. It was one thing for his uncle to cut out the tongue of every man on his crew, but to not have a mouth at all?

There are so many ships clustered around the shore that they have to beach the  _ Black Wind _ beneath Norne Goodbrother’s castle across the island; Asha and Theon ride across while the men take boats or make the walk. The kingsmoot will not start today, but if the  _ Silence _ is here, that means Euron is, too, and Asha wants to speak with him before the kingsmoot starts.

Aeron meets them at the bottom of Nagga’s Hill, waterskin slung underneath his arm and a grim look on his face.

“Niece. Nephew.”

“Nuncle. Why do you call a kingsmoot when the matter of succession is so simple?” Asha asks by way of greeting. “I am my father’s heir.”

“You are a daughter and cannot inherit the Seastone Chair,” Aeron says without emotion. “Nephew, we thought you were lost in the bowels of the North.”

“I was,” Theon says lightly. “My sister cut me loose.”

Aeron ignores that. “Do you mean to claim your father’s crown?”

“No. I mean to champion my sister, who claims our father’s crown.”

Aeron actually raises a shaggy eyebrow at that. “You would champion your sister before you? Balon’s only living son?”

“I am his only living son, but Asha is his heir,” Theon says calmly, knowing he will have to say this many times more in the days to come. “She’s more fit to rule than I am.”

“On that, we can agree,” Aeron says dryly, “but no woman can sit the Seastone Chair.”

“Nor can a godless man, if I recall correctly,” Asha says in a flat voice. “And as I understand it, my nuncle Crow’s Eye is an extremely godless man.”

Aeron’s nostrils flare. “That he is.”

“Yet you will let him claim the crown?”

“It is not for me to decide. The waves will speak.” Aeron hesitates. “He would have taken the throne in truth had I not called the kingsmoot. He would have named himself king and had you both killed. No woman may sit the Seastone Chair, Asha, but do not say I did not try to help you. At least now you can make your claim, what good it will do.”

“The waves will speak,” Asha says in the same ominous tone as her uncle. “Thank you, nuncle.” She moves past him, Theon right beside her. “I want to get a feel for the other men throwing in their names,” she tells him. “Or rather, what kind of support they have. Most of them will be hosting feasts and the like, trying to win some champions before the kingsmoot begins.”

She’s right about that; there’s a cloth-of-gold tent that even from a distance Theon can tell is for the Crow’s Eye and a red tent with the skeletal hand of House Drumm, but there are many and more tents and cookfires besides. Theon and Asha wander around the island, pausing here and there to listen to a tale or share a skin of ale. All of the men recognize Asha, and they either find it amusing that she means to claim the Seastone Chair, or irritating. 

“We’ll see who’s laughing and turning up their noses when the Seastone Chair is mine,” she sings whenever this happens, leading Theon on to the next cookfire. 

They don’t learn much, save that Dunstan Drumm means to put forward his name, and Tarle the Thrice-Drowned saying Maron Volmark is the heir of the black line, but Asha doesn’t seem worried by either of these claims, if they are indeed claims.

“The Drumm has nothing to recommend him, save his Valyrian sword Red Rain and victories from long ago,” Asha tells Theon. “Any man on the islands can say the same. And Maron Volmark might be Harren the Black’s heir, but the kingsmoot that put Vickon Greyjoy on the Seastone Chair struck out Maron’s claim before he was even born.”

“So you think it will just be you and our uncles?”

“There might be a few men foolish enough to think their words mean something, but their supporters will be small in number.” 

A sailcloth tent has been erected on the beach by then, and some of Asha’s men have caught up with them--namely Qarl the Maid, their cousin Quenton, and Ser Harras Harlaw, another distant cousin and one of the only knights to come from the Iron Islands. 

“Have you taken stock of your challengers?” Qarl asks Asha good-naturedly.

“Only the Drumm. We heard Tarle Thrice-Drowned name Maron Volmark the heir to the Seastone Chair through the black line, but I didn’t see Maron.”

“Probably because he’s with Victarion,” Quenton says dryly. “He means to support his claim.”

“Victarion is here?”

“His is the sailcloth tent on the beach,” Ser Harras says. “Many men come and go, so it’s hard to tell who means to support him and who only came to eat his food and drink his ale.”

“All of them, if they have any sense,” Asha scoffs. “Even if one of my uncles was to be chosen, why should it be Victarion over Euron? The oldest always comes first.”

“Aye, but Euron is a godless man,” Qarl reminds her. “Mayhap your uncle Victarion thinks that makes his the stronger claim.”

“He has the weakest claim, and all men will see it at the kingsmoot.”

“There was some other news,” Quenton says. “The Young Wolf is dead.”

Theon starts. “Robb?”

Everyone’s eyes fix on him, everyone remembering that he was a ward of House Stark. No, he thinks, no, surely not, surely he meant a different person, or it’s just some rumor, not  _ true. _

“Robb Stark, aye,” Quenton says slowly, eyes still fixed on Theon. “He was killed at a wedding. His uncle Edmure was marrying some Frey girl at the Twins, and Walder Frey and his sons turned on the Northmen and killed Robb Stark and his mother. The Red Wedding, they’re calling it.”

Theon feels as if the earth is crumbling beneath him. No. No, no,  _ no, _ why would they do that, why would they  _ kill Robb and Lady Catelyn-- _

“Theon?” It’s Asha, standing in front of him with an urgent look in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he chokes out. He knows that he cannot betray anymore emotion than he already has. The ironborn believe him a true ironborn, turned against the Northerners who raised him, and if they see him weeping for the death of his captors…

“My brother has had too much to drink,” Asha says to the other three. “Go on ahead to my nuncle Victarion’s tent; I’ll meet you there soon.” She takes her brother’s arm, leading him stumbling away from the sea of cookfires. Too many, there are too many now, and he can feel himself choking on all the smoke.

Asha steers him to a tent, shoving him into one; belatedly, he realizes that this is her camp, and this, her tent. The men must have been setting up.

“Theon,” she says gently. “I know you were close to Robb. But you cannot let the other men see you weep for him, do you understand me?”

He wants to scream and shout at his sister...but at the same time, he knows she’s right. Robb was his brother and his king, but he can’t explain that to the ironborn. To them, Robb was a greenlander and the enemy. Theon took Winterfell, and as far as anybody knows, killed Bran and Rickon. Why should he weep for Robb Stark?

Bran and Rickon. If the Freys have killed Robb and Lady Catelyn, they were very likely aided by someone powerful--the Lannisters, most like. Which means Winterfell…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Asha says, stern enough to jolt him from his musings. “And you’re not going back. You  _ cannot _ go back. I know it’s tempting, but you  _ must stay here. _ What good will your going back to the greenland do, hmm? You want to avenge Robb? By what, marching alone to the Twins and killing Walder Frey? Riding into King’s Landing and killing the Lannisters? You’re only a man, Theon, and this fight is too big for you. The Starks, the Northmen...they don’t need you. But  _ I _ need you.” She rests a hand on his cheek. “I need you to champion me. I need you to tell the ironborn that you, Balon Greyjoy’s last living son, name Asha Greyjoy your queen. You swore to be with me, now and always.”

_ Am I your brother, now and always? _

_ Now and always. _

He swallows. “I’ll stay.”

She relaxes. “Thank you.”

“You’re right.” He drags his sleeve across his eyes, wiping his tears. “I’ll stay, I only...I can’t go back out there right now.”

“And you don’t have to. Stay here. Drink my ale, eat my food; whatever’s mine is yours. I’ll pay a call on Victarion, and perhaps Euron, too. Will you be alright if I leave you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go.” She presses her forehead to his. “I love you, baby brother.”

“And I love you.” 

Asha squeezes his shoulder one more time before leaving him. 

He wishes she hadn’t. He wishes she’d sit here with him so he wouldn’t feel so alone. 

But Asha is the rightful ruler of the Iron Islands, and she has to convince the other ironborn of that fact. She doesn’t have time to sit here with him, comforting him while he mourns the truest friend he’s ever had, a man who was more like a brother to him than his own trueborn brothers.

So Theon pours himself cup after cup of ale, drinking until his sorrows are drowned, and then he climbs into Asha’s bed and tries to stop thinking. 

He should never have come to the Iron Islands. He should have stayed with Robb. He could have protected him, or at the very least, died beside him. Asha would have been fine without him. She’s without him even now. 

_ She doesn’t need me. But Robb needed me. He needed me and I failed him.  _

_ Turncloak, traitor. Ironborn. Greenlander.  _

_ Am I your brother, now and always? _

_ Now and always. _

.

He startles awake when he hears movement in the tent. Still drunk and half-asleep, he sits up. 

“Who’s there?”

A husky voice from the tent flap says, “Esgred.”

“Fuck you.” He lies back down on the bed, head swimming.

Asha drops onto the bed beside him, draping an arm over him. “How are you feeling?”

“Drunk.”

“Good. Let the drink drown the tears.” Her voice softens. “I’m sorry. I know you were close to Robb.”

“He was like a brother to me,” Theon admits. “More than Rodrik and Maron, even.”

“Rodrik and Maron were men grown while we were children. And they weren’t very good brothers,” Asha admits. “Rodrik was always drunk and Maron was cruel and a liar besides. I was sad when they died, but I don’t miss them. Not the way I’d miss someone who grew up beside me.”

“He’d have lived if I’d stayed with him,” Theon says quietly. “If I’d been at the Twins…”

“You would’ve been slaughtered with all the rest of his Northmen,” she says sternly. “He was surrounded by men loyal to him, and not a single one of them survived. They didn’t even spare his own mother. You would have died if you’d been there.”

“Maybe I ought to have.”

Asha slaps his face, so hard that he yelps. 

“What was that for?!”

“Stop that,” she says sternly. “I don’t want anymore of this talk. You can mourn Robb Stark, but I don’t want you talking about dying beside him like something out of your greenland songs. He is dead, and it’s very sad, but I won’t let you think that living was a mistake. You are alive for a reason.”

_ Because I’m a traitor, _ he wants to say, but he knows Asha won’t want to hear that. And maybe she’s right. Maybe there is a reason he’s alive. Not because of something he did, but because of something bigger than him. 

Asha strokes his cheek, soothing away the sting of her slap. “It will all be alright, baby brother. I promise.”

And like a frightened child, Theon falls asleep in his sister’s arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter that borrows dialogue pretty heavily from the books, but will probably be the last one of its kind. 
> 
> Thank you for the two people who are reading this, y'all are the MVPs.

For a day and a night, stragglers arrive at Old Wyk, circling the island in search of a place to weigh anchor before they join the festivities.

On the second morning, once the sun has risen (as much as it ever does on Old Wyk), the drowned men begin to march down the hill, striking their cudgels in a summons for the kingsmoot. Kettledrums soon join the clangor, and then a pair of warhorns. 

All of the men walk up Nagga’s Hill, from lowly fishermen to the lords of great houses. Thralls, salt wives, and even maesters and singers accompany some of the lords, everyone displaying their wealth and power for all the ironborn to see. 

_ Much good may it do them, _ Theon thinks grimly.

The great lords and captains gather on the slopes, while the wives, children, and thralls remain at the foot of the hill. Theon stays beside Asha, who is dressed more simply than many of the men.

“These men claim to be ironborn, but have they paid the iron price for their fine things?” she murmurs where only Theon can hear. “Were those sables and helms taken with iron or paid for with coin?”

At last, Damphair raises his hands, and the banging of the cudgels and chatter from the ironborn cease. The only sound is the crash of waves upon sand.

“We were born from the sea, and to the sea we all return.” Damphair’s voice is soft, and Theon knows this is so that all will quiet and strain to listen to him. “The Storm God in his wrath plucked Balon from his castle and cast him down, yet now he feasts beneath the waves in the Drowned God’s watery halls. Balon is dead! The iron king is dead!” 

_ “The king is dead!” _ the drowned men echo.

“Yet what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger! Balon has fallen, Balon my brother, who honored the Old Way and paid the iron price. Balon the Brave, Balon the Blessed, Balon Twice-Crowned, who won us back our freedoms and our god. Balon is dead...but an iron king shall rise again, to sit upon the Seastone Chair and rule the isles.” 

_ “A king shall rise! He shall rise!”  _

“He shall. He must. But who? Who shall sit in Balon’s place? Who shall rule these holy isles? Is he here among us now?” Aeron spreads his hands wide. “Who shall be king over us?” 

No one answers him. 

“Why does no one speak?” Theon whispers after a long moment.

“To speak first is a sign of weakness,” Asha whispers back. “The first man to name himself king never gets the crown. Or so our uncle Rodrik has said.”

“The ironborn must have a king,” Damphair says when the silence stretches on. “I ask again. Who shall be king over us?” 

“I will.”

Before Theon can even turn to see the source of the voice, he hears cries of, “Gylbert! Gylbert King!” The captains part to let the claimant and his champions ascend the hill to stand at Aeron’s side beneath the ribs of Nagga. This would-be king is a tall man with a melancholy face, his square jaw shaved clean. His three champions take up their position two steps below him, bearing his sword and shield and banner. The champions look so like the copy of the claimant that Theon takes these to be the man’s sons. One unfurls his banner, a great black longship against a setting sun. 

“I am Gylbert Farwynd, Lord of the Lonely Light,” the claimant announces. 

Theon knows little of the Farwynds, save that Lonely Light is the westernmost of the Iron Islands, and the farthest away. Years and years ago, a group of ironborn were attempting to sail off of Old Wyk when a storm buffeted them to the isle that would come to be known as Lonely Light. The captain, a Farwynd of Sealskin Point, established his own house on the island, but it’s said that a madness runs through their veins. Madness, or a single-minded sort of bravery.

Gylbert Farwynd chooses bravery, and begins to speak of the strength and courage of his forebears and the strength and courage that runs through his and his sons’ veins now. He tells them the old tale, of a land across the Sunset Sea. Hundreds, if not thousands, have tried to find it, but no one ever has. Not until now.

“Make me your king, and I shall lead you there,” Gylbert Farwynd promises. “We will build ten thousand ships as Nymeria once did and take sail with all our people to the land beyond the sunset. There every man shall be a king and every wife a queen.” 

His men pour out offerings of sealskins and walrus tusks, arm rings made of whalebone, warhorns banded in bronze. Everyone looks, but the captains leave the offerings untouched; only lowly men, children, and thralls dart forward to take the prizes, slipping back to their places in the back. Only House Farwynd of Lonely Light calls Gylbert’s name, and only for a short time, their folly soon realized. The cries fade to silence, the chests are put away, and Gylbert and his sons reluctantly walk back down Nagga’s Hill.

Aeron Damphair steps forward once more. “I ask again. Who shall be king over us?” 

“Me!”

The crowd parts for a carved driftwood chair, upon which sits a man who rivals even Wyman Manderly. He has a long, cascading beard, and he wears a white bear’s pelt so that Theon can’t tell what is beard and what is pelt. 

Several men bear him up the hill, and though they are young and strapping, they visibly struggle with his weight, and set him down before Nagga’s bones with relief. Three remain below as his champions.

“Aye, me!” the man roars, remaining in his driftwood chair, but his presence is no less towering. “Why not? Who better? I am Erik Ironmaker, for them who’s blind. Erik the Just. Erik Anvil-Breaker. Show them my hammer, Thormor.” One of his champions lifts it up for all to see, a monstrous brick of steel. “I can’t count how many hands I’ve smashed to pulp with that hammer, but might be some thief could tell you. I can’t say how many heads I’ve crushed against my anvil neither, but there’s some widows could. I could tell you all the deeds I’ve done in battle, but I’m eight-and-eighty and won’t live long enough to finish. If old is wise, no one is wiser than me. If big is strong, no one’s stronger. You want a king with heirs? I’ve more’n I can count. King Erik, aye, I like the sound o’ that. Come, say it with me. ERIK! ERIK ANVIL-BREAKER! ERIK KING!” 

The young men, who Theon takes to be sons and grandsons, take up the cry and upend chests of silver, bronze, and steel; arm rings, collars, daggers, dirks, and throwing axes. A few captains snatch up the choicest items and add their voices to the swelling chant. 

“I’ve had enough of this farce,” Asha declares, and cries out, “ERIK!”

Men move aside to let her through. With one foot on the lowest step, she says, “Erik, stand up.” 

A hush falls.

Theon grins.

Erik Ironmaker stares down at Asha. “Girl. Thrice-damned girl. What did you say?” 

“Stand up, Erik. Stand up and I’ll shout your name with all the rest. Stand up and I’ll be the first to follow you. You want a crown, aye. Stand up and take it.” 

Theon laughs out loud. Erik glares at him, hands closing tight around the arms of his driftwood chair. His face purples, his arms tremble, a thick blue vein pulses in his neck, but he cannot make himself stand. He sinks back against his chair, looking sad and small, and his sons and grandsons carry him down the hill.

Aeron comes forward again. “Who shall rule the ironborn? Who shall be king over us?” 

Theon can feel eyes on him. He can see men watching his sister, too, and Victarion. Everyone knows at least one Greyjoy will put forward their name...but when?

Another old man, though not so old nor nearly as feeble as Erik Ironmaker, comes forward. “I will.”

Theon can tell by the banner behind him and the Valyrian steel sword at his side that this is Dunstan Drumm. He takes his place on the steps, regarding the men gathered below him. “Where is it written that our king must be a kraken? What right has Pyke to rule us? Great Wyk is the largest isle, Harlaw the richest, Old Wyk the most holy. When the black line was consumed by dragonfire, the ironborn gave the primacy to Vickon Greyjoy, aye...but as lord, not king.” 

“He makes a good speech,” Theon mutters to his sister.

“A good speech, aye, but wait until he begins to talk of his ancestors.”

Asha tells it true; Dunstan Drumm speaks of the deeds of Dale the Dread, Roryn the Reaver, the hundred sons of Gormond Drumm the Oldfather. He draws his Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain, and tells them the story of how Hilmar Drumm the Cunning had taken the blade from an armored knight with wits and a wooden cudgel--a story every child on the islands has heard. He speaks of ships long lost and battles eight hundred years forgotten. He talks for so long that Theon cannot believe the Damphair does not interfere, but at last Dunstan Drumm’s sons open chests and reveal...bronze. A better offering than sealskins and walrus tusks and whalebone, but not by much. No one touches the gifts, and the Drumms quietly move downhill.

Aeron comes forward again. “Who shall be king over us? Nine sons were born from the loins of Quellon Greyjoy. One was mightier than all the rest, and knew no fear.” 

“Bastard,” Asha whispers as Aeron locks eyes with Victarion. “Helping me, my arse…”

Victarion makes his way up the hill, kneeling before Damphair. “Brother, give me blessing.”

Aeron uncorks his waterskin and pours a stream of seawater down upon Victarion’s head. “What is dead can never die.”

“But rises again, harder and stronger.” Victarion rises, his champions arranging themselves below him. To Theon’s dismay, men begin calling his name before he even begins to speak. Victarion waits for the calls to die out before saying, “You all know me. If you want sweet words, look elsewhere. I have no singer’s tongue. I have an axe, and I have these.” He raises his huge mailed hands up to show them. “I was a loyal brother. When Balon was wed, it was me he sent to Harlaw to bring him back his bride. I led his longships into many a battle, and never lost but one. The first time Balon took a crown, it was me sailed into Lannisport to singe the lion’s tail. The second time, it was me he sent to skin the Young Wolf should he come howling home. All you’ll get from me is more of what you got from Balon. That’s all I have to say.” 

His champions take up the cry, “VICTARION! VICTARION! VICTARION KING!” while the rest of his men open chests of silver, gold, and gems. Captains scramble to seize the richest pieces, shouting, “VICTARION! VICTARION! VICTARION KING!” 

Theon turns to his sister. “Now?”

She nods. “Now.”

Theon puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Even the loudest of men stops and turns to look at him as he makes his way up the hill, stopping just below Victarin’s champions. “There’s no one braver than my uncle,” Theon tells the crowd, “no one stronger, no one fiercer in a fight. He has no sons, though. His wives keep dying. And there are other Greyjoys with a better claim to the Seastone Chair than he.”

“Nephew,” Aeron booms, “do you mean to claim the Seastone Chair?”

“Now, uncle, why should the younger brother take the elder child’s birthright?”

“Because the elder child is a daughter,” Victarion says coldly.

“She’s more of a man than most of the men I’ve seen here today,” Theon says, and the crowd roars with laughter. “She’s even more of a man than I am, and a better captain and warrior, too. What’s more, she is the heir our father Balon chose.” He lifts a hand to his sister. “I name my sister Asha as queen.”

Asha’s men are quick to take up the call, “ASHA! ASHA QUEEN! ASHA! QUEEN ASHA!”

Asha moves to take Theon’s place; he falls in beside Tristifer Botley and Ser Harras Harlaw, her other two champions.

“My nuncle said you know him,” Asha calls when the shouts have died down. “You know me too—” 

“I want to know you better!” someone shouts. 

“Go home and know your wife,” Asha shoots back. “Nuncle says he’ll give you more of what my father gave you. Well, what was that? Gold and glory, some will say. Freedom, ever sweet. Aye, it’s so, he gave us that...and widows too, as Lord Blacktyde will tell you. How many of you had your homes put to the torch when Robert came? How many had daughters raped and despoiled? Burnt towns and broken castles, my father gave you that. Defeat was what he gave you. Nuncle here will give you more. Not me.” 

“What will you give us?”

“A kingdom.” Asha gives them all a steely look. “My father sent us to take the North. What is that, but leagues and leagues of leagues and leagues, far from the sound of the sea? We have taken Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, even Winterfell. What do we have to show for it?” She beckons, and her men push forward with their chests of oak and iron. “I give you the wealth of the Stony Shore,” Asha says as the first chest is upended. An avalanche of pebbles clatters forth, cascading down the steps. “I give you the riches of Deepwood,” she continues, as the second chest opens. Pinecones come pouring out, rolling and bouncing down the hillside. “And last, the gold of Winterfell.” From the third chest comes yellow turnips, round and hard and big as a man’s head. They land amidst the pebbles and the pinecones. Asha stabs one with her dirk. “Harmund Sharp, your son Harrag died at Winterfell, for this.” She pulls the turnip off her blade and tosses it to him. “You have other sons, I think. If you’d trade their lives for turnips, shout my nuncle’s name!” 

“And if I shout your name?” Harmund demands. “What then?” 

“Peace,” Asha tells him. “Land. Victory. I’ll give you Sea Dragon Point and the Stony Shore, black earth and tall trees and stones enough for every younger son to build a hall. We’ll have the Northmen too...as friends, to stand with us against the Iron Throne. Your choice is simple. Crown me, for peace and victory. Or crown my nuncle, for more war and more defeat. What will you have, ironmen?” 

“VICTORY!” shouts Rodrik the Reader, his hands cupped about his mouth. “Victory, and Asha!” 

“ASHA!” Theon echoes. “ASHA QUEEN!” 

Asha’s crew takes up the cry. “ASHA! ASHA! ASHA QUEEN!” They stamp their feet and shake their fists and yell. Theon can see some holding their tongues or muttering to their neighbors, but many and more men are shouting for her. 

_ She has won them, _ he thinks ecstatically. 

One of Victarion’s champions calls, “Victarion! VICTARION! VICTARION!” and desperately twirls his banner to bring the attention back to him.

A scuffle breaks out between Asha’s men and Victarion’s, each shouting their chosen ruler’s names as they push and shove. It looks like it’s about to get bloody when a horn splits the air.

It’s not like any horn Theon has ever heard before, though. This is an eldritch cry, a cry from an instrument not made by men. All eyes turn towards the horn, wielded by a monstrous looking man, though it’s not near as monstrous as the horn, which is shiny black and twisted. It’s taller than a man and so big that the man has to hold it with both hands. The horn is bound about with bands of red gold and dark steel, incised with ancient Valyrian glyphs that seem to glow redly as the sound swells.

Theon clamps his hands over his ears as the cry gets louder, more piercing, as if it’s trying to get inside his very skull. The man blowing the horn blows with an impossible breath and strength, and when he finally lets go, he stumbles away, his lips bloody and blistered and the horn smoking.

Euron Greyjoy climbs the hill slowly, with every eye upon him. He is much as Theon remembers, quiet and calm, but a storm rumbles beneath his skin, ready to unleash at a moment’s notice. Asha and her champions step aside, and Victarion and his champions as well. The Crow’s Eye stops atop the steps, at the doors of the Grey King’s Hall, and turns his smiling eye upon the captains and the kings. 

“IRONMEN,” he calls, “you have heard my horn. Now hear my words. I am Balon’s brother, Quellon’s eldest living son. Lord Vickon’s blood is in my veins, and the blood of the Old Kraken. Yet I have sailed farther than any of them. Only one living kraken has never known defeat. Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining--”

“If you liked the Shadow so well, go back there,” calls out Qarl the Maid. 

The Crow’s Eye ignores him. “My little brother would finish Balon’s war, and claim the north. My sweet niece would give us peace and pinecones. My nephew is too craven to claim the Seastone Chair at all.” His blue lips twist in a smile. “Asha prefers victory to defeat. Victarion wants a kingdom, not a few scant yards of earth. From me, you shall have both. Crow’s Eye, you call me. Well, who has a keener eye than the crow? After every battle the crows come in their hundreds and their thousands to feast upon the fallen. A crow can espy death from afar. And I say that all of Westeros is dying. Those who follow me will feast until the end of their days. We are the ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard. My brother would have you be content with the cold and dismal north, my niece with even less...but I shall give you Lannisport. Highgarden. The Arbor. Oldtown. The Riverlands and the Reach, the kingswood and the rainwood, Dorne and the marches, the Mountains of the Moon and the Vale of Arryn, Tarth and the Stepstones. I say we take it all! I say, we take Westeros.” He gives is brother Aeron a mocking look. “All for the greater glory of our Drowned God, to be sure.” 

“Crow’s Eye,” Asha calls, “did you leave your wits at Asshai? If we cannot hold the North—and we cannot—how can we win the whole of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

“Why, it has been done before. Did Balon teach his girl so little of the ways of war? Victarion, our brother’s daughter has never heard of Aegon the Conqueror, it would seem.” 

“Aegon?” Victarion crosses his arms against his armored chest. “What has the Conqueror to do with us?” 

“I know as much of war as you do, Crow’s Eye,” Asha retaliates. “Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with dragons.” 

“And so shall we,” Euron promises. “That horn you heard I found amongst the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me. You heard its call, and felt its power. It is a dragon horn, bound with bands of red gold and Valyrian steel graven with enchantments. The dragonlords of old sounded such horns, before the Doom devoured them. With this horn, ironmen, I can bind dragons to my will.” 

Theon laughs aloud. “A horn to bind goats to your will would be of more use, Crow’s Eye. There are no more dragons.” 

“You are wrong, little nephew. There are three, and I know where to find them. Surely that is worth a driftwood crown.” 

“EURON!” shouts one of Euron’s champions. 

“EURON! CROW’S EYE! EURON!” cries another. The mutes from the  _ Silence _ throw open Euron’s chests and spill out his gifts before the captains and the kings. 

“EURON! EURON! EURON!” the men roar, even Erik Ironmaker. “EURON! EURON! CROW’S EYE! EURON KING!”

And that’s when Theon knows all is lost.

As the men bear Euron down the hill to anoint him, Rodrik Harlaw grabs his niece and nephew. 

“Leave,” he tells them. “Leave now. Ride across the island and board the  _ Black Wind. _ Go north, south, east, west...wherever will take you away from this place, and Crow’s Eye. He will not kill you outright, but he will kill you nonetheless, for as long as you both live, his hold on the Seastone Chair will never be secure.  _ Go. _ ”

Theon and Asha stumble across the hillside, most of her men stumbling down to the strand to take their boats back to the  _ Black Wind. _ They mount the horses they borrowed from Norne Goodbrother and ride hard across the island. The men she left to guard the ship are still there, and the boats are closing in fast. Theon and Asha leave the horses at the castle, not even bothering to hand them over to the stablehands; the horses are lathered and not like to wander far. 

Instead, Theon and Asha board the  _ Black Wind, _ her crew climbing on behind them. Their cousin Quenton Greyjoy and his men board the  _ Salty Wench, _ and Theon can see Tristifer Botley and his men making the  _ Silverfin _ ready. A fourth ship, the  _ Drunkard’s Delight, _ captained by an even more distant Greyjoy cousin named Dagon, pulls up alongside the  _ Salty Wench. _

Four longships, Theon thinks sadly as they row north and west. Old Wyk is surrounded by hundreds of ships, all of which belong to their uncle Euron now, but all Asha managed to escape with are four longships. 

How could it be? The men had loved Asha and her promises of peace, but Euron had promised dragons and they had fallen over themselves to name him king. 

_ Who is more foolish? _ he wonders:  _ the ironborn for believing Euron’s lies, or us for not realizing sooner that they are fools? _

He stands beside his sister, watching as they turn towards the Sunset Sea. “Where are we going?”

“South,” she decides. “We’ll have to clear the islands, but once we do, we’ll head for the Free Cities. We’ll stop at Fair Isle and take on fresh food and water, and then we’ll keep going until we reach the Narrow Sea. We should be able to outrun Euron.”

“And if not?” Theon finds himself asking.

“It’s a great, wide world, baby brother, and we only have four longships. If we can’t run, we can hide.”

“And then what?” He turns to look at his sister. “We spend the rest of our lives at sea, hiding from our uncle?”

“Not the rest of our lives,” she tells him, a steely look in her eyes. “Euron promised dragons. He can’t bring them dragons. Soon the men will grow tired of him, tired of his promises. They’ll wonder where Balon Greyjoy’s children and heirs have gone. And when they come looking for us to deliver them from the madman they put on the Seastone Chair, we’ll be waiting.”

If it was anyone else, Theon would call  _ them _ a madman. But it’s Asha, and there’s something about her that makes Theon certain she’s right. So he nods, and looks out at the Sunset Sea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto the fun stuff! 
> 
> Things start looking up for Theon as he and Asha get the hell out of Westeros. We'll have a few chapters of adventures before the canon plot reappears, so enjoy!

They do stop at Fair Isle, after a winding journey that had them looping west of the Iron Islands and making a hard course east for Fair Isle. They are all out of provisions by the time they reach the island, and it takes no small amount of convincing the harbor master that they only want food and water and to be on their way.

“We’re not the ones you should be afraid of,” Asha tells the man while her men load crates of apples, limes, and salted cod onto the ships. “A storm follows us, named Euron Crow’s Eye. That is the kraken you should fear.”

Once the four ships are loaded fit to bursting, they sail south past Feastfires, Lannisport, Crakehall, and the Shields; from there, they round the heel of Dorne, slipping through the Redwyne Straits before making port at Planky Town. Asha allows the men one night to drink and wench and get up to their mischief before they depart in the morning.

Theon stays on the ship, however, and Asha with him. Even though they are well ahead of the Iron Fleet, if indeed the Iron Fleet is behind them, they are still too wary to lower their defenses. 

“Where do we go next?” she asks her brother, unrolling a map of the known world. “We could go north through the Narrow Sea, visit Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Braavos, Lorath. We could go as far east as Ibben, but I don’t know. Or we could keep going east, visit the pillow houses of Lys, stop in Volantis, go around the Smoking Sea of Old Valyria and into Slaver’s Bay. Or we could go south to the Summer Islands where we could sleep and fuck and drink spiced rum.”

Sleeping and fucking and drinking spiced rum sound exactly like the kinds of things Theon wants to do right now, so he nods. “Let’s go to the Summer Islands, then.”

She grins. “The Summer Islands it is.”

“Have you ever been?”

She shakes her head. “No, just heard stories. But I hear they have great respect for fucking. Maybe you’ll find a girl or three to fuck your sorrows away.”

Theon has tried not to show his grief for Robb, but his sister knows him well, and he doesn’t remember all of the things he says when he’s deep in his cups and it’s just the two of them. Perhaps his grief is more obvious than he’d thought. At least to Asha, who somehow knows him better than he knows himself.

At least Asha is also aggrieved, but that has nothing to do with Robb and everything to do with the kingsmoot. Theon grieves for that, too, because he had been so  _ sure _ his sister would be named queen. Now they’re going to hide out in the Summer Islands, all four of their longships and two hundred of their men, while Euron rules the Iron Islands, men and ships beyond counting. 

He wants to believe that Asha is right, that the other ironborn will come running to them soon enough...but what if she’s wrong? What if they prosper under Euron, and can be convinced to kill Asha and Theon if their paths cross? What if they form a manhunt for the two siblings? It’s a great, wide world, as Asha said, but Euron now commands hundreds of ships and thousands of men. 

Perhaps Victarion will help them, if they run into their other uncle. He has no love for Euron. Asha told Theon why Euron was exiled, and Theon can only imagine the hatred Victarion has for his older brother, who not only seduced his wife and put a child in her belly, but then sailed away with his life and sailed back in time to kill his brother and take the Seastone Chair. Yes, surely he’d want to help them overthrow Euron.

But then what? Then Victarion is king, and Asha is no closer to sitting the Seastone Chair. They might be able to convince Victarion to name her his heir...but Victarion is not an old man, and even if he didn’t father sons, why should he name Asha his heir, and how long would she have to wait even if he did? She might turn into their aunt Gwynesse.

_ Not Asha, _ Theon tells himself...but he wonders. He never knew Gwynesse prior to her husband dying. What if she was just like Asha? What if Asha will be just like her? 

“Hey,” she says now, and Theon shakes himself out of his musings to look at his sister. She peers at him, concerned. “You alright?”

“Fine,” he lies, and then amends, “I just...want to stop running. It feels like all I’ve been doing lately.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” she says earnestly. “It won’t be like this forever. Just until we...figure something else out.”

“I know.”

She jerks her head. “Come on; what’s say we break into that Dornish wine?”

.

Theon spends his last night in Westerosi waters rip-roaring drunk--which is, he supposes, only fitting. In the morning, they head out to the open sea.

Theon’s never seen anything like it before. When he’d sailed to and from the Iron Islands, when they’d sailed south and around the heel of Dorne, there had always been land somewhere in the distance. Even if it was a faint smudge on the horizon, it had been there.

There are no such smudges on the horizon now. A few days south of Dorne, Theon can’t see anything around him but the sea and sky. 

_ We could get taken by a storm and drown out here, and no one would know, _ he thinks in awe. 

It always feels strange, to remember how small he is in the grand scheme of things. In Westeros, he was someone, even if that wasn’t always a good thing. He had been somebody on the Iron Islands, too. But out here on the open sea, with naught between him and the depths of the ocean but a few planks of wood? He feels as insignificant as a pebble on a beach, a drop of water in an ocean. It’s frightening, yet oddly calming. No matter how badly he’s made a muck of things, it won’t last. In time enough, no one will even remember the name Theon Greyjoy. He’ll be lost to the sands of time, just like everyone else.

.

They sail for weeks without so much as passing a single ship. It’s near enough to make Theon go mad. He likes the open water, and he’s gotten used to life on a ship, but so much time without seeing a sign of life outside of their small fleet…

Even the gulls don’t fly this far out. Sometimes they’ll see porpoises in the distance, and once or twice someone swears they see a shark fin jutting above the water, but for the most part, it’s quiet. Well, quiet aside from the ironborn, who are far from a quiet bunch. 

When the boredom sets in, the men start singing. It will begin at mid-morning or noon, and sometimes last until deep in the night. They sing work songs and sailor’s jigs, bawdy songs and sad laments. Whatever helps them forget that they are alone in this watery desert. 

There’s drinking too, once the day’s chores are winding down, and dancing of both the normal and the finger kind. Sometimes they draw the four ships as close as they dare get and leap between the ships, visiting with friends. The older men like to tell tales while the younger men play games, and sometimes a man may find himself falling asleep and waking up on a ship that is not his own. It doesn’t matter, though; the men all know each other and the ships, and one man can do as good a job as any other, if they aren’t feeling up to swinging from one ship to the next. 

Theon starts to like the strange little home they’ve made for themselves out here. He wakes up on Quenton’s  _ Salty Wench _ a time or two and spends the day with his cousin and his men. One time Asha wakes up beside him and decides to stay on her cousin’s ship, and everyone thinks it’s great fun to let Hagen captain the  _ Black Wind _ for the day. 

There’s one night when Dagon gets so drunk that he falls into the sea, and several men leap in after him. They search for almost an hour, and then come to find that he somehow made it onto the  _ Silverfin, _ where he fell asleep while the men were searching for him. No one can find it in them to be too annoyed; they only laugh and pull themselves out of the water, reaching for a fresh cup of ale.

It’s strange and solitary out here, but it’s also the closest Theon has felt to home since he rode out from Winterfell with Robb what feels like a thousand years ago now. He doesn’t feel like the outcast here, the way he did at Winterfell or on Pyke. He’s a Greyjoy, a member of Asha’s crew, and he belongs here as much as any man.

.

They’ve been at sea for weeks when the far-eyes declares there’s land ahead. Theon and the other men gather at the prow, squinting at the faint smudge of land in the distance. 

“The Summer Islands?”

“Unless we’ve gone terribly off-course,” Asha says wryly. 

As they draw closer, Theon can see a large island with two smaller islands in front of it. Stonehead and the Isle of Woman, he knows from the maps Asha showed him, and the big island is Walano. 

The islands are covered with verdant forests, with bright green leaves of an unusual shape. The waters are such a crystalline blue that they’re almost clear, and if Theon leans over the side, he can see hundreds of fish in more colors than he knew existed in the world. 

They encounter ships as they draw nearer, all of them with unusually long prows.

“Swan ships,” Asha tells him. “For the archers. They’re famous for them.”

Theon thinks of the bow and arrows in his cabin. He’d like to balance on the prow of a ship, firing arrows at his enemies. It’s not the ironborn way, perhaps, but then, neither is a brother ceding his inheritance to his sister.

.

They dock in the harbor of Last Lament, paying the harbormaster an exorbitant fee to watch the ships. He doesn’t speak much of the Common Tongue, but enough to direct them to the best brothels, winesinks, and temples of love and fertility in the city.

The city is unlike any Theon has ever seen before. Though some of the buildings are tall stone and clay structures, most of them are one or two stories and painted in bright colors and patterns. In fact, everything here seems to be brightly colored; though the people are just as dark as he had heard, with skin and hair ranging from nut-brown to polished jet, their clothes are all colorful, loud shades of green and pink and purple and orange that no one in Westeros would be bold enough to wear. Many of the Summer Islanders wear feathers, too, be they high collars or long, trailing cloaks. 

The residents of Last Lament observe the drab, salt-stained ironborn with amusement, clearly finding them as strange as the ironborn find them. The strangeness only goes so far, though; once the two peoples realize that they have a shared interest in drinking, fucking, and generally having a good time, the ironborn fit right in. They may not speak the Summer Tongue, but they only have to raise their cups or take a woman’s hand for their meaning to be understood. 

And there are cups of wine and women aplenty; Theon and Asha wander in and out of the painted buildings, nearly all of which seem to be pillow houses full of every kind of man and woman imaginable. 

“Lovemaking is a sacred art,” explains the madam of one such pillow house. She waits on Theon and Asha personally, being one of the only people they’ve encountered to speak the Common Tongue. “Everyone is expected to serve at the temples of love at some time in their life, and many continue serving after they have left. In Westeros and Essos, pillow houses are places for slaves and the very lowborn. It is considered a shameful profession. Here, it is the opposite. Making love is a respectable trade to ply, and even those of noble birth practice it.”

“The highborns of Westeros are whores, too,” Asha tells her. “Ask any of the smallfolk, and they’ll tell you how well their lords fuck them.”

The madam laughs. “That may be as it may be. You will enjoy much better fucking here.” She taps her chin, considering them. After a moment, she points at Asha. “You like a handful, don’t you?”

Asha chokes on her wine. “I--”

“Two girls for you. Maybe three,” the madam decides, and then turns to Theon. “And you. You  _ like _ a woman who can take what you give. But you  _ need _ someone to show you  _ how _ to give.”

Theon is not easily fazed, but he finds himself turning red at the madam’s pronouncement. “Well…”

Asha grins at him over the rim of her cup. “She’s saying you’re inexperienced.”

“I’m  _ not _ \--”

“Oh, I know. You’ve fucked many women, and you think this makes you good at it,” the madam dismisses. “But it is as I said: lovemaking is a sacred art here, and we will teach you how to pray. Wait here.” And with that, she glides away.

“God, I’m almost nervous,” Asha declares. “ _ Three _ girls, did she say?”

“You’ve got two hands and a mouth,” Theon points out.

Asha knocks her cup against his. “I’ll drink to that.”

The madam does indeed bring three girls for Asha; one is quiet and curvaceous, one is slender and giggly, and the third plops right on Asha’s lap and kisses her by way of introduction. Asha grins, letting all three of them lead her away. 

The madam puts her hands on the shoulders of a girl who looks to be about Theon’s age, steering her forward. She’s a beauty, her ebony skin reflecting the blue of her dress and her long hair bound in tight braids. She looks almost shy, but the madam assures Theon that Umara will teach him all that he can hope to know in the ways of love. 

“But first,” she tells him, “she will give you a bath.”

It’s been longer than Theon would like to admit since he had a bath, and he’s sure that despite the perfumes and incense of this house, he must smell rank. He lets Umara take him by the hand, leading him up to a room covered in silk hangings. Two boys about Bran’s age are filling a copper tub with buckets of water; Umara begins to strip Theon then and there, and when the boys are finished filling the tub, she gives them the dirty clothes.

_ “Eea,” _ she tells Theon, pointing at the tub. 

“Do you speak the Common Tongue?” he asks, even as he steps inside. The water is hot, but not too hot, which is a relief; he had known it would be hot here in the Summer Islands, but nothing had quite prepared him for it. He’s sweating even now, and he doesn’t envy the boys who are handling his clothes. 

Umara says something in the Summer Tongue, pouring oils onto a rag and then cleaning him with the rag. There’s an embarrassing amount of grime he hadn’t paid attention to before, and Umara scrubs like a scullion scouring pots and pans. She talks all the while in her strange Summer Tongue; once or twice, Theon tries to ask her a question, but she just keeps talking. 

_ We don’t speak a word of each other’s languages, _ he realizes.  _ Well, _ he supposes,  _ you don’t need to speak the same language to fuck.  _

Umara cleans every inch of him, even getting under his nails and behind his ears, and then she pours a bowl of fresh water over his head and works her oils into his hair. 

It actually feels...nice. He finds himself leaning into her touch, closing his eyes as her fingers work through his hair and massage his scalp. She rinses his hair gently, and then stands up, gesturing for him to get out. She dries him off with linen and then pulls him to the bed, a great canopied thing with silken sheets and an ebony headboard. 

Theon reaches for Umara at once, but she grips his hands with surprising strength, pushing him back with a firm,  _ “Ny.” _

_ “Ny?” _ he repeats. “No?”

“No,” she echoes, and then says something in the Summer Tongue. Well, the madam  _ had _ said that Umara would teach him all that he could hope to know.

And Umara does teach him. He had never been what you might call a  _ giving _ lover before; he liked to fuck women, and he liked it when they liked it, but he always wanted to do it his way and it always ended when he was finished.

Umara doesn’t let him do it his way, and oddly, he finds that he likes it. Though they cannot speak a word of the same language, she shows him where and how she likes to be touched, and she touches him in ways he never knew he could be touched. When she mounts him, she doesn’t fuck him the way he’s used to fucking women; she makes love to him, starting slow and building until he’s trembling like a green boy.

And it doesn’t end when he finishes, either; it keeps going, with him touching her and her touching him until  _ he’s _ the one who takes her hands and declares,  _ “Ny. _ Please. I can’t anymore.”

Umara smiles and lies beside him. The sun is setting by then, the room full of a dim, rosy light, and Theon falls asleep to the distant sound of music and birds singing.

.

He threads in and out of sleep in the canopied bed. Sometimes he and Umara make love, a drowsy, unhurried kind of coupling he’s not used to.

In the morning, Umara feeds him a sweet, sticky sort of fruit he’s never eaten before. It gets all over them, and they kiss and lick the juice from each other until they’re sticky and sated. Umara has a fresh bath drawn for them, and then returns his freshly laundered clothes to him. 

When he stumbles down the stairs, unable to wipe the grin off his face, he sees Asha waiting for him below, a shit-eating grin on her face, too. 

“Well?”

“Well?” he parrots, walking outside with a swing in his step.

“That good, eh?”

“ _ That _ good, eh?”

Asha throws an arm around her brother. “I think we’re going to like it here, baby brother.”


	7. Chapter 7

The weeks they spend on the Summer Islands are some of the happiest of Theon’s life. 

There is always something to do, some place to see or people to visit. There are just enough islanders who speak the Common Tongue to direct them to this place or that and explain the way of things. In turn, Theon picks up some Summer Tongue; not much, but enough to get by. He can order food and drink and find a place to sleep, and that’s all he really needs in a place like this.

There are very few horses on the islands, as they are not native to the islands and few have managed to survive the journeys from Westeros and Essos, so most of their traveling is done on foot or by boat. Theon doesn’t mind; though it’s hotter than the seventh hell down here, the islands are lush and green and beautiful, and there are many sights to see and music to hear and women (and men) for him to enjoy. 

There was much he learned from Umara, but there is more still he learns from the people he couples with in the days following. He begins to understand why lovemaking is a sacred art here. There’s an intimacy to being with someone, to pleasuring them and being pleasured in return. 

He can’t help but think back to the captain’s daughter on the  _ Myraham. _ Poor girl. She’d been sweet and simple and eager to please, and Theon had taken advantage of those qualities. He’d left her with a father he’d known would mistreat her, and he’d likely left her with a bastard, and the thought shames him now as it hadn’t before. 

_ I can’t even remember her name. _

How could he have been so cruel to someone like that? That was not the way Lord Stark raised him.

_ But it was the way my father and uncles and brothers raised me. I was a true son of Pyke then, and not the ward of Eddard Stark. _

Even here, or perhaps  _ especially _ here, he finds himself missing Winterfell, cold and dismal and grey as it was. Even lying in pleasure gardens, enveloped in the flowers’ sweet perfume while watching rainbow birds fly overhead, he finds his mind turning to his bed in Winterfell, a feather mattress piled high with quilts and furs. He thinks of the snows that can fall seven or eight feet deep in the heart of winter, the springs that are always hot no matter how cold the air, the red and white heart tree with the face carved into the trunk. 

_ But I can never go back. _

Maybe that’s why he misses it so much. Knowing that it’s forbidden, that he can never go back, that to do so would mean the end of his life.

_ I should have stayed with Robb. None of this would have happened if I had. _

“You still miss him,” Asha observes now.

Theon looks away. “He was my brother. That’s what he told me. When Greatjon Umber named Robb his king, I looked at him and I asked, ‘Am I your brother, now and always?’ He said, ‘Now and always,’ so I knelt and I named him my king. They all took up the call then. The King in the North.” He’ll never forget that day, and the weight behind their words. 

Asha sighs. “I had hoped that bringing you here might take your mind from Robb Stark and the North. But not even as far south as south goes will take your mind from the North.”

“I don’t think anything ever will.”

“Ah, well. I suppose we never forget our first love.”

“You’re saying the North was my first love?”

“The North...or the King in it,” she says cheekily. 

Theon doesn’t know what to make of that.

.

The southernmost of the three great Summer Islands is Jhala, on which grow the famous goldenheart trees. 

“They make the best bows in the world,” a minor lord named Kokka Lo tells them in a pleasure garden in Red Flower Vale.

“I heard dragonbone made the best bows,” Theon counters.

“So the Valyrians would have you believe,” Kokka Lo allows, “but bones do not bend. They break. Goldenheart bows are strong and supple, and they will bend without breaking. Even the great dragon lords of Old Valyria paid dearly for our goldenheart.”

“How much would one pay for such a bow?” Asha asks, glancing at her brother.

“Off the islands? A fortune. On the islands it is a little less than a fortune.” He leans forward. “But if you happen to have a friend who owns property on which the goldenheart grows, it will cost you very little.”

“You have goldenheart trees?” 

“They came with the land when I came into it,” Kokka Lo tells them. “The man who owned my property before me was very wealthy. His misfortune in life was my fortune.” He drinks from his cup, observing the two siblings. “You would like a goldenheart bow?”

“I would,” Theon says honestly. “But even if you were willing to sell it to me, there is nothing I have of value to exchange for it.”

Kokka Lo waves his hand. “I have many things of value. It matters not. There will be a war soon, and I may not be here much longer.”

Theon and Asha exchange surprised looks.

“I did not know there was so much unrest here,” Asha says.

“Oh, there isn’t. War is different here. We do not fight when one lord takes insult to another. When the gods of war will it, they speak through our priests. Wars are decided months in advance. And they are not this bloody, hacking mess you Westerosi make. We use only spears and slings, and the war lasts a few hours. The survivors are exiled from the islands. The manse that I own now once belonged to another lord. In a short time, it may belong to another.”

Theon and Asha exchange looks again.

“So you just...decide to fight each other, and whoever wins has to leave?” Asha asks in surprise.

“Perhaps it sounds strange to you,” Kokka Lo allows. “Just as these bloody wars that last for years sound strange to us. I would be honored to give you a goldenheart bow, Theon Greyjoy, for it may be the last gift I have to give.”

“But what happens if you’re exiled?” Asha persists. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

Kokka Lo shrugs. “I do not know. Traditionally, the victors allow the defeated to gather their things and take their ships--how else can they exile us? I can sell enough fine things to buy a manse in the Free Cities. But perhaps I will keep my fine things and take on a life of piracy.”

“You should join me,” Asha tells him. “If you are exiled, you should join my fleet. I mean to take back my birthright someday, and we could use a man like you. I’d make you a lord in the Iron Islands.”

Kokka Lo laughs. “A lord in the Iron Islands! Now that is a fine thing to imagine. Perhaps I will join you, Asha Greyjoy, but I must warn you: my swan ship is far more beautiful than your Westerosi ships with flat noses.”

“All the more reason for you to join me, and beautify my fleet.”

He laughs again. “Sweet words, my lady! Very well, if I lose the war, I will join your fleet, and help you take back your throne.” He raises his cup in a toast. “To iron islands and goldenheart bows.”

.

Theon and Asha are Kokka Lo’s honored guests in the coming weeks. He feasts them near every night and sees to it that they have an endless supply of the sweet wine that is made here in the valley. Sometimes he takes them hunting for the strange looking deer that roam the valley and the forest, but they encounter other creatures on the way: flocks of birds of every color, the silvery apes that screech at the slightest disturbance, the lean red wolves that pass through the woods, and very occasionally, the spotted panthers that watch them from the tree branches.

“They won’t attack when there are several of us on horseback,” Kokka Lo explains to his guests. “But if one or two people are walking alone and the panther is hungry, they just might. You should fear the wolves more.”

Theon tries not to think about wolves.

Kokka Lo sends for a bowmaker from Ebonhead, who cuts the wood from a goldenheart tree and shows Theon how to make it into a longbow. It’s as tall as a man by the time they finish, carved with a litany of krakens and direwolves. When Theon shoots it for the first time, he understands why goldenheart is so sought after.  _ This _ is a warrior’s weapon.

“This is why the Summer Islanders threw off the yoke of slavery,” Kokka Lo says proudly. “Imagine men and women with these bows on the neck of a swan ship.”

Theon is imagining it. There are dozens of ways to fight at sea, but such deadly longbows have a precision that other long-range weapons lack, especially with the nature of ships moving over water. 

“If Kokka Lo does lose the war, all of his friends should join us,” Theon tells Asha. “Do you know how many men we could kill from the prow of a swan ship, with skilled enough archers? We could take a ship without ever setting foot on it.”

“An ambitious thought,” Asha says, but he can tell that she’s considering. “Even if Kokka Lo’s friends did join us, I don’t imagine there would be enough to meet the Iron Fleet head-on, even with the most skilled archers.”

“Probably not,” Theon allows. “But with enough of them...we could at least do some damage from a distance.”

“Perhaps.” She hesitates. “Whatever happens when this war is over...I think we should leave.”

That doesn’t surprise Theon. As much as Asha enjoys the islands, he knows his sister is growing restless. She’s a warrior, his sister, and she wasn’t made for lounging about all day every day. He thinks, too, that the upcoming war and inevitable exiles weigh heavily on her mind. She did not fight a proper war against Euron, but Theon knows she fights one in her mind every night when she closes her eyes. No amount of beautiful women or sweet wine will ever make her forget the sound of Euron’s name being shouted at the kingsmoot.

_ It will be her name they shout someday. When Euron’s promises have gotten them nowhere, they’ll turn to her and name her their queen. _

And if they do not…

Well. He won’t think about that now.

.

The day of the war draws near at last. Asha has sent Quenton and Qarl the Maid to round up the men at Ebonhead, Parrot Bay, Lotus Port, and Tall Trees Town, and meet them at Last Lament, but she and Theon remain at Kokka Lo’s manse to see the outcome of the war. 

Kokka Lo, his wife, and his elder sons and daughters wear leather armor, spotted panther’s hides, and paint on their faces in ritualistic dots and lines. They carry with them spears plumed in feathers and slings tucked into their belts.

“Can we watch?” Asha asks, but Kokka Lo shakes his head.

“Our wars are only meant for our eyes. You must stay here, and guard my children.”

Kokka Lo has been a generous host, and neither Theon nor Asha wants to risk the wrath of the Summer Islanders, so they do as he requests. 

The three younger children are always eager to spend time with the exotic foreigners, and either unaware or uncaring of the war, they spend the day hanging off of Theon and Asha. Asha is clearly discomfited by the attention, being unused to children, but Theon finds that he doesn’t mind. The two boys remind him of Bran and Rickon, and the girl reminds him a little of Arya. They are all three full of the boundless energy that only children have, and Theon is exhausted by the time Kokka Lo and his family returns.

Theon and Asha can tell instantly from the looks on their faces how the war went.

“We have three days to pack up our things and leave,” Kokka Lo tells them. “And then we must go. Never to return.”

There’s a melancholy to his voice that Theon understands well. 

_ The Summer Islands are to him what Winterfell is to me.  _

Maybe there will be a place for Kokka Lo and his family on the Iron Islands...if there is even a place for Theon and Asha.

.

Theon and Asha head north for Last Lament while Kokka Lo and his family pack up their things and board their ship in Parrot Bay. 

The other ironborn are already gathered, eager to get a move on. The sea is in their blood, and much as they’ve enjoyed drinking and fucking away the time, they want to go home to the sea.

The night before they depart, Theon finds Umara. She smiles when she sees him, and her smile grows when he shows her all that he’s learned since they were last together. 

In the morning, Kokka Lo meets them in the harbor, his family and a group of men and women crewing the swan ship. The five ships sail out of the harbor and head north.

“Where to now?” Theon asks his sister. 

“Lys, I think,” she says slowly. “It’s the nearest port. Then north to the Stepstones, maybe.”

“With all the other outcasts?”

Asha smiles at him. “Aye, the other outcasts. Who knows? Maybe they need a queen.”


	8. Chapter 8

The journey from Last Lament is almost as long as the journey to it. Theon doesn’t mind; in fact, he’s starting to realize that he’s missed being out on the open sea. 

The time passes much as it had before, but now with a Summer Island flair. When the music and singing starts up at night, the Summer Islanders add drums and their stringed goldenheart and ebony instruments. They teach the ironborn their songs and dances, and they seem to enjoy watching the ironborn sing and dance to their own music, though Theon can’t help but suspect they’re laughing at the ironborn, who are admittedly not as graceful nor good at singing as the Summer Islanders.

When the far-eyes spies land, the crew clusters at the prows to watch the island of Lys come into view. The water lightens into a blue-green, and they soon see a walled city with palm trees dotted here and there. 

“Are they friendly here?” Theon asks his sister in a low voice.

“If we are friendly first. We have goods from the Summer Islands to trade, and men who haven’t had their cocks sucked in a few weeks; they’ll let us through.”

Asha is right; the harbormaster asks for their business and lets them through without a second glance. Theon soon sees the reason for his lack of concern; inside the high walls is an army of sellswords, men who look as if they’ve seen trouble and know how to stop it in a trice. 

After spending so many weeks on the Summer Islands, it’s strange to be in a city where most of the people are pale of skin and hair. He remembers Maester Luwin telling him that the blood of Old Valyria still runs strong in Lys, more than anywhere else in the world. 

_ So this is what a Targaryen looks like, _ he thinks, watching people with silver-blond hair and purple eyes pass him on the street. Not that there are any Targaryens left, save the daughter of the Mad King, and last he heard, she was married to some Dothraki. 

_ A pity they don’t sail, or she’d have Joffrey’s head cut off his shoulders by now. _

And speaking of Joffrey…

They meet a group of Dornishmen in a tavern, recently come from Ghaston Grey, and ask what the news is from Westeros.

“The War of the Five Kings is won, or so they say, but the fighting is far from finished,” one of the men says. “All but one of the kings are dead.”

“Joffrey?” 

“Stannis,” the man says with a puzzled look. “Joffrey was killed at his wedding feast.”

Theon and Asha exchange surprised looks. 

“Then who sits the Iron Throne?  _ Tommen? _ ” Theon remembers the plump little boy who was always trailing after his mother at Winterfell. He would join them in the yard sometimes, so padded he looked ridiculous and he needed two men to pull him upright whenever he fell, but he seemed a sweet lad, and nothing like his brother.

Not that his reign will be sweet; Tywin Lannister is still the Hand, and Cersei is a viper in a lion’s pelt.

“Tommen, aye, though the Faith Militant are the true rulers of the kingdom.” At Theon’s nonplussed look, the man laughs and says, “Gods, you really have been away for a while.” He scoots closer to be better heard over the clamor of the tavern. “Joffrey was poisoned at his wedding feast, and the Imp of Lannister was found guilty. They accused his wife, Sansa Stark--”

_ “Sansa? _ Married to Tyrion Lannister?!”

“Well, no one knows where she is now,” the Dornishman says. “She disappeared at the wedding, so everyone thinks she was part of it.”

Theon can hardly imagine little Sansa Stark poisoning anybody--but then, she had more reason than most. Joffrey killed her father and kept her a prisoner, and it’s said the Red Wedding was the work of the Lannisters, too. Having her married to a Lannister must have just been the last straw. 

“No one knows where she is?”

“No. Tyrion requested a trial by combat. His champion was Oberyn Martell,” the Dornishman says proudly, but his smile fades. “He went up against the Mountain Who Rides, to make him answer for the rape and murder of Elia Martell and her children. They killed each other, but since the Mountain fell last, the judges decided Tyrion was guilty. The night before his execution, he murdered his father, and then he disappeared, too.”

_ Wonders never cease.  _

“The queen has offered a prize for anyone who brings the Imp back to her. She also reinstated the Faith Militant to protect the realm, but now it’s said it’s the High Sparrow who rules in King’s Landing, and not the Lannisters.”

“The High Sparrow?”

“That’s what they call them, these septons and religious folks who have flocked from all over the seven kingdoms.” The man rolls his eyes. “Sparrows. Their leader now rules as the High Septon.”

“And what of the rest of the seven kingdoms?”

“The Riverlands have gotten the worst of the fighting. The Northmen that weren’t killed or captured retreated, but there are so many outlaws that the Lannisters can’t handle them all. Brynden Blackfish holds Riverrun and refuses to yield.”

“Not Edmure Tully?” Theon had liked Robb’s uncle, what little he’d seen of him. 

“He’s a prisoner of the Freys.” The Dornishman swallows his ale. “The Vale has kept out of the war, as usual, and the Reach is beholden to the Lannisters; Margaery Tyrell is the queen now. Let’s see, what else? Euron Greyjoy rules the Iron Islands, though I suppose you already knew that.”

“That we did,” Asha says grimly.

“And the North?” Theon can’t help but ask.

“Ruled by the Boltons now. All the Starks are gone, so Roose Bolton is the Warden of the North and his bastard Ramsay’s been legitimized.”

Theon’s stomach turns. So it doesn’t matter that Bran and Rickon survived; the Boltons killed them anyway. 

“Stannis Baratheon still means to be king, and it’s said he rode north to name Ned Stark’s bastard the Warden of the North.”

“Jon Snow?” Theon asks in surprise. “But he’s a bastard, and a man of the Night’s Watch besides.”

“Stannis will pardon him.”

“Can a king pardon a man of the Night’s Watch?” Asha asks curiously. 

The Dornishman shrugs. “No one’s ever done it before. The black is for life, and their order served for thousands of years before the seven kingdoms became one...but why not?”

“Will he do it?”

“No one knows. The Night’s Watch has their own problems to deal with, though; they’ve let wildlings come through the Wall, and they claim the white walkers are coming back.”

Theon remembers that man they’d killed the day they found the direwolves. He’d insisted he saw white walkers, and it had been either a lie to save his skin or his own madness. Either way, the man was a deserter, and Lord Stark had taken his head.

_ And I’d kicked it, because I was a fool. _

“What about Dorne?” Asha asks, seeing the distress on Theon’s face. “No news from your own country?”

The Dornishman gives her a strange smile. “Would that I had news for you, my lady. Someday, perhaps, but not this day.” 

_ Dorne is up to something, but he will not tell us. _

“There is news from the east, too,” the Dornishman’s friend adds, joining them. “Daenerys Targaryen has freed all the slaves in Slaver’s Bay, and now rules from Meereen.”

“Daenerys Targaryen?” Theon and Asha trade looks. “How?”

“With her dragons.”

Asha chokes. “Her  _ dragons _ ?”

“Where have you been, to not hear this news?!”

“The Summer Islands,” Theon says. “She has dragons?”

“Yes; she hatched them in her husband’s funeral pyre, or so they say. She freed the Unsullied from their chains and used their strength to take Astapor, Yunkai, and now Meereen. She rules there as its queen, and needs only the ships to sail west and reclaim the Iron Throne.”

Theon and Asha stare at each other. 

_ Euron. _

He knew about Daenerys and her dragons. That’s why he promised them to the men. 

_ He’s planning to marry Daenerys, or kill her, and use her dragons to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. _

It’s a mad plan...but Euron is a madman, and he’s managed to become king of the Iron Islands. Why not the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?

After the Dornishmen have moved on, Theon turns to his sister, lowering his voice. “Do you think that’s what he meant? The dragons?”

“I don’t think any man truly knows what Euron means...but I would say it’s a...distinct possibility,” Asha allows. “It fits together, doesn’t it? She has dragons and an army, all she needs is a fleet to take her home so she can take the Iron Throne. Euron has a fleet, and if she were to agree to his terms, he’d rule at her side.” She drums her fingers on the table, considering. “Euron spent the last three years sailing all over the world. He would have heard about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.”

“Do you think she would agree to his terms and marry him?”

“I think if she was desperate enough to come back to Westeros, she would,” Asha says grimly. “The Unsullied is an army beyond compare, but they’d still be outnumbered by the Westerosi. Assuming enough of them muster to face them in open battle, of course. Euron doesn’t only have the Iron Fleet at his disposal, he also has men. Can you imagine how quickly Westeros would fold before an army like that? Ironborn, Unsullied, and dragons?” She shakes her head. “It’s a mad idea, but not mad enough that it couldn’t work.”

Theon hesitates. “What...do we do?”

“If it’s true? Nothing. What can we do? Our five ships and less than three hundred men against an army like that?” Asha shakes her head, her mood black. “We’re done for.”

Theon doesn’t know what to say to that. How suddenly it all went awry. She had been so sure they only needed a clever plan to winkle Euron out of power and take the Seastone Chair, the men, and the Iron Islands for herself. But if he has Daenerys Targaryen at his side and her dragons and Unsullied at his back…

Asha knocks back the rest of her ale. “I’m going to get drunk. So drunk I forget my own name. You should too.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says at once. “Be careful. Please.”

She gives him a sad look. “Why? What do I have to live for?”

Theon reaches for her hand. “You have me.”

She looks at him...and then deflates. “Aye. I suppose I do.” She squeezes his hand in hers. “I still want to get so drunk I forget my own name.”

“I’ll look after you while you do.”

Asha smiles. “You’re a good man, baby brother.” She leans forward. “Just make sure I don’t embarrass myself with a woman. Let me shit in the street, let me throw up all over myself, just...don’t let me embarrass myself with a woman.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s a good boy.”

.

They spend a few days in Lys, trading goods from the Summer Islands by day and drinking and wenching by night. Theon does not let his sister embarrass herself with a woman, and when she’s sober enough, they both avail themselves of Lys’s many pleasure gardens and pillow houses.

Lys is a beautiful city with many charms, but the high walls feel too high for Theon’s liking, and the city is excellent at draining their coin purses, so they do not linger long. 

It’s a relief when they finally board their ships again and head north for the Stepstones.

“You’ll like it there,” Asha promises. “There are no kings or princes or magisters. Just people like us. There’s fighting when you’re in the mood for it, and peace if that’s what you’d prefer. There’s women and wine, and a man can sleep as soundly on land as on his ship.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Theon tells her. “As long as you’re there. That’s all that matters.”

Asha smiles. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad I finally get to post this chapter

For nearly a year, Asha’s little fleet sails up and down the Narrow Sea, harrying the Stepstones and whatever merchant’s ships are unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Most of them are armed, but even an armed ship is no match for five ships full of fighters. 

Asha lets the ships leave once they’ve taken their plunder, and she’s ordered that no woman shall be raped by her men. That last one has gotten some grumbling, but no one defies her. She is still their queen, and her word is law.

They sell most of the plunder in cities and towns when they come across them, though they keep most of the coin and weapons for themselves. The coin they use to buy food and drink and women, and the weapons they use to protect the coin. Once in a while, they will encounter other pirates in the Narrow Sea, but five ships is too much for a lone pirate ship or two. Only once has a fleet attacked them, but the seven galleys either sank or retreated, and victory belonged to the ironborn.

Theon has also learned to identify different ships and where they came from. Near all of them are merchants, but he’ll see cogs and carracks, galleys, and even the occasional dromond. With time, he can tell where they’re from and most like where they’re going. Most of them will fly their colors, but he has learned that sometimes the colors are a deception; Pentoshi, for instance, will often sneak slaves from Lys and Myr into the city by flying Myrish or Lyseni colors. 

They’re in the heart of the Narrow Sea with a vague notion of skimming the Fingers when they see an eastward bound merchanter. The victory is an easy one; all five of their ships surround the merchanter in a ring, and the sellswords hired to protect the ship are no match for the ironborn and Summer Islanders. They give the best fight they can, knowing that if they surrender, it means losing the gold they were promised; but in the end, none of them can hope to defeat their attackers.

They board the merchanter once the long range weapons have been taken out, cutting down what’s left of the sellswords and the sailors bold enough to put up a fight. Only a few of them have the sense to throw down their weapons and beg for mercy, and Asha grants them quarter.

There are no passengers on the ship, at least that Theon can see from a cursory look. The captain and first mate are dead, killed in the fight, so he and Tris bring one of the older crewmen to Asha on deck.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“Don’t know, m’lady.”

Theon and Asha trade looks.

“You don’t know?”

“Captain didn’t say. Captain gave us a course, we kept to it.”

The siblings trade another look.

“Why would the captain not tell his own men where they were headed? This is a merchant’s ship, isn’t it?”

The old man licks his lips. “If it please you, m’lady, the captain was a bit...odd. Didn’t tell us where he was from or where he was going, and took on a whole new crew in King’s Landing, save the first mate. He told us from the first that he couldn’t tell us where we was going. We shoved off late at night, the hour of the wolf, I think it was, and right before we did, a man and a girl came up the dock. The man and the captain spoke for a bit, and then the girl got on the ship.”

Asha looks at Theon. “Thought you said there were no passengers.”

“I didn’t see any.”

Asha opens her mouth, but right at that moment, Quenton comes up from below decks, calling, “Theon! There’s a girl here asking for you.” 

“A girl?” 

Quenton does indeed have a wisp of a girl by his side, and when she comes into the firelight, Theon sees a pair of familiar brown eyes.

“Jeyne Poole?” he asks in disbelief.

She gives him a tremulous smile. “Hello, Theon. I was afraid you wouldn’t remember me.”

“Of course I remember you.” How could he not? She was Sansa’s little friend, always by the other girl’s side. She used to giggle at damn near everything, but there’s no sign of that girl now. This girl is shaking like a leaf, clutching her cloak around her shoulders. He wonders if she hates him as much as the other Northmen do. Winterfell was her home, too. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s...a bit of a long story.” Her eyes flit nervously to the dead men on the deck, her face paling. “Am I your prisoner?”

“That depends,” Asha says, turning to her brother. “You know this girl?”

“Aye.” He tears his eyes away from Jeyne, looking at his sister. “Her father was Winterfell’s steward.”

“So no one would pay her ransom?”

“I don’t think so.” Theon turns to Jeyne. “Where was the ship headed?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. “They said it was better if I didn’t know.”

“Why does no one on this bloody ship know where it was headed?” Asha asks in irritation. “We’ve got a ship with no captain, no first mate, not enough men to sail her, and no one knows where it was headed. Is this a riddle?”

“We were already headed for the Fingers,” Theon points out. “We can sail the ship west, take Jeyne and the crew back to Westeros--”

“I don’t want to go back,” Jeyne says at once, afraid. “Please don’t make me go back.”

The intensity behind her words surprises Theon. “No one’s going to make you go back,” he says quickly, hoping to calm her. “And you’re not our prisoner.” He glances at his sister, pleading without words.

Asha glances at Jeyne and nods reluctantly. “You’re not our prisoner. And no one will make you go back. But if you don’t know where you were headed, then where are we to take you?”

Jeyne still seems nervous, though not as much as she was a moment ago. “Anywhere that isn’t Westeros. I don’t care.”

_ What happened to her? _ Theon can’t help but wonder. Jeyne had gone south with Lord Stark and her father, and as far as anyone knows, the whole household had been killed. Not even Arya had escaped the bloodbath, apparently.  _ But here Jeyne is, afraid but alive. _ “What were you doing in King’s Landing, Jeyne? And how did you come to cross the Narrow Sea?”

She’s afraid again, eyes wide as she clutches the cloak at her shoulders. “I was a prisoner. The queen. Cersei. She...she had me locked away, but no one ever said why.” Her voice cracks. “Lord Varys came to me one night and told me to come with him. He brought me to this ship and said the captain would look after me. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going.”

Varys. The Master of Whisperers. 

“Why did he do that?”

“He said it was a favor for a mutual friend. He said he should’ve done it a long time ago.”

Theon glances at his sister, her eyebrows raised to match his. 

“I suppose we could take the other men back to Westeros,” Asha says slowly. “Keep the ship, add it to the fleet. Lady Jeyne can stay with us until we come back to the Free Cities.”

“Sail all the way to Westeros for ten men?” Quenton asks in disbelief.

“They surrendered,” Asha reminds him. “Or would you have me slit their throats?”

Jeyne pales.

“If it’s all the same to ye, m’lady,” the old sailor says, “I’d just as soon be a pirate, if you’re needing men.”

“Another ship means I need the men to crew it,” Asha muses. “Very well, sailor.” She hooks her thumbs in her belt, sauntering up and down the line of prisoners, hands bound as they watch their captor. “How many of you want to go back to King’s Landing? You won’t be killed for it, have no fear of that.”

A few of them murmur halfheartedly. 

“How many of you want to go to the Free Cities?”

The same halfhearted rumbles as before.

“And how many of you want to join my crew and visit the Free Cities with fistfuls of gold?”

“Aye!” they shout.

“You want to be pirates?”

“Aye!”

“Well, that was easy,” Asha says cheerfully. “Cut them loose.”

The ironborn cut the captive sailors out of their bonds and pull them to their feet as members of their crew. 

“I think I’ll take this for my flagship,” Asha decides. “I love the  _ Black Wind, _ but this is bigger, and fitter for a queen. What’s the name of this ship?”

“The captain just called her his lady, m’lady.”

“Of course he did. Well, I’ll think of a new name.” She grins at her brother. “Maybe I’ll name her  _ Esgred. _ ”

“Fuck you,” Theon says, and then remembers Jeyne is standing right there. “I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice while the men begin to celebrate; they bring up casks of wine and rum from belowdecks, and over the water, he can hear the strings of the Summer Island harps. “I’m not...used to being around ladies anymore.”

Jeyne gives him a small smile. “It’s alright; I’m not a lady, and I’ve heard worse.” A shout of laughter makes her eyes flit nervously to the side, her smile fading. She’s terrified, even though she’s no longer in danger. 

“Why don’t we go somewhere quiet?” he suggests. “Catch up.”

She nods, looking relieved. “There’s wine in my cabin. If you would like some.”

“I would.” He follows her down the stairs, smiling at the other ironborn he passes and clapping them on the shoulders. Jeyne flinches each time a man gets too close to her, but none of them bother her, for which Theon is grateful. They know better than to rape or even harass the women on the ships they capture, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get in a woman’s face from time to time. He doesn’t think Jeyne could handle it.

Her cabin is spacious, and he knows from the build it’s either the best or the second best cabin on the ship. It looks even bigger because there are no personal effects whatsoever. If not for the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed and the cup sitting on the table, he would think no one was staying here at all.

Jeyne finds another cup, and pours them both cups of Dornish red. It occurs to Theon that she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, but she drinks the wine like someone accustomed to it. 

“So,” she says in a falsely bright voice. “How did you come to be here?” Her smile fades. “You attacked Winterfell, I heard.”

He should’ve seen this coming. He knocks back half his cup. “I did.”

“You really did?” She looks crestfallen. “I had hoped...it was a lie…”

“I attacked Winterfell,” he says quietly. “Robb sent me to Pyke to treat with my father and ask for his help, and in return, he’d name him King of the Iron Islands again. My father spat on Robb’s proposal, and on me. He named himself king and decided to attack the North. He sent me to raid the Stony Shore, because he didn’t think I was a true ironborn warrior. And he was right. My men didn’t respect me. Why should they have? I took Winterfell to prove myself to my father, but I didn’t have enough men to hold it, and my father refused to send more. It’s like I was dead to him.” He can feel a black mood descending on him. “Then Bran and Rickon ran away. I knew everyone thought I was a traitor and a fool. So I killed two boys about the same age as Bran and Rickon, and burned them and strung them up on the walls so everyone would think I’d killed them. Bran and Rickon were alive when I fled like a coward. I saw them.” He shakes his head. “But the way I hear it, they died anyway when the Boltons took the castle.”

“I knew you didn’t kill them,” Jeyne says softly. “I knew you loved them.”

“Little good it did them, in the end.” He can’t help the bitterness creeping into his tone.

Jeyne bites her lip. “And...now your uncle is the king?”

“Aye.” He drinks again at that. “Euron. Crow’s Eye. He killed my father. Our other uncle, Aeron, called a kingsmoot. It should’ve been my sister to sit the Seastone Chair, but the crowd named Euron their king.”

“Not you?” she asks, confused. “You’re your father’s trueborn son…”

“And a weakling in the eyes of the ironborn. They don’t see me as one of them. Not enough to name me their king. And they shouldn’t. My sister is a better ruler than I am; a better captain and warrior, too. And she is the elder besides.”

“Can women rule the ironborn?”

“They never have before.” He heaves a sigh. “And most like, they never will. Euron would kill us both if he had the chance, so we aren’t giving it to him.”

“Instead, you’re pirates,” she surmises.

“It’s not an honorable life, nor is it a bad one,” he admits.

Jeyne props her chin in her hand. “I don’t suppose it is, otherwise so many men wouldn’t turn to it. I’m sorry about your uncle.”

“It is what it is.” He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his mind of thoughts of Euron. “But what about you? Last we heard, Lord Stark’s household had been put to the sword.”

A shadow passes over Jeyne’s face. “Yes. They did.” She takes a deep, shaking breath. “It was awful, Theon. One day they just...descended on us. I was in my room when I heard fighting. I looked out the window and saw men in the yard. Lannister men, killing the Northmen.” Her voice tightens. “I barred the door, but the Hound tore it down with a warhammer. He grabbed me by the arm and started taking me away, but he wouldn’t say where. I tried to run away, but Ser Meryn Trant found me and hit me across the face, and started to drag me away, but the Hound found us and said I was to go with Sansa.” Tears form in her eyes. “Sansa and I were locked in a room in Maegor’s Holdfast for three days. Servants brought us food, but no one would talk to us. Then one day the queen summoned Sansa, and half an hour or so later, Lord Baelish came for me as well.” 

She’s shaking again; Theon reaches across the table for her hand, but she draws back in alarm. He withdraws his hand, watching helplessly as she tries to calm herself down.

“He said he was taking me to my father. I was so happy to hear my father was still alive, because I thought he’d be dead. I waited in his apartments, and he gave me wine too soothe my nerves.” The tears roll down her cheeks. “When I woke up, I was in a brothel. Lord Baelish told me my father was dead, and he was going to look after me.” She chokes on a sob. “He made me a whore.”

Theon’s stomach turns. That had been, what, two, three years ago? Jeyne would have only been thirteen or so. A child.

“He sold my maidenhead five times because he said the last four men wouldn’t know the difference,” she goes on, wiping her eyes. “He kept me locked in a room for men who want young girls. They were never kind. One of them was Ser Meryn. He’d always beat me first.” Fresh tears roll down her cheeks. “It was constant. I’d wake up when one of the girls told me to get ready, I’d lie there while they hurt me, and then I’d go back to sleep. Lord Baelish whipped me if I cried too much or if I fought back, so I stopped crying and trying to fight back. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room, except for the whippings.” 

She truly was a prisoner, then, though her prison was different from most. Even a true prison would have been better than that endless stream of... _ that. _

“It got a little better when Lord Baelish left for the Vale,” she says after taking a deep breath. “One of the girls I was close to had disappeared, and Olyvar was left in charge. He used to be a whore, but Lord Baelish left him in charge. He wasn’t as cruel as Lord Baelish, and he let me come out of my room sometimes, but he didn’t want the customers to see me. I was too young to be in a brothel and he didn’t want to get in trouble.” She takes another deep breath. “And then one night Lord Varys came to my room. I knew he was a eunuch, so I was confused, but he said he was taking me away. He gave me a cloak and bid me draw the hood so no one would see my face, and then he led me out of the back way and to the docks. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew it couldn’t be worse than that awful place. We came to the ship, and he and the captain spoke in some foreign tongue, I don’t know which one, and then he said, ‘Jeyne, Captain Andros will look after you. It’s better for all of us if you don’t know where you’re going, but trust that I am sending you to a friend who will keep you safe.’ I asked him why he was doing this, and he got this sad look on his face and just said, ‘Consider it a favor owed to a mutual friend, one I should have granted a long time ago.’ Then the captain took me aboard and showed me to my cabin, and that was that.”

Theon hardly knows what to make of it all. What mutual friend did Jeyne and the Master of Whisperers have? What if putting her on this ship was a trap? But then, what would be the point of such a trap? She was right in King’s Landing, only a summons away from the Lannisters if they had need of her. And what need had they of her? Why keep her at all when it would have been easier to kill her with the rest? More importantly,

“What will you do in the Free Cities?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Work. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just not…”

She doesn’t have to finish.

Jeyne has nothing to her name, and for all she’s endured, she’s still innocent to the ways of the outside world. If they dropped her off at the nearest port, she wouldn’t survive long. She was trained to be a lady’s maid, but no lady is like to take some strange girl from Westeros off the streets. She’d have to work in a tavern, or some other job where men would pinch and grope her, or live on the streets, where men would pinch and grope her and worse. 

He could give her some gold and jewels from his own stores, but how long would they last her? She could stay in a room in a nice inn for a time, and then what?

_ I can’t just leave her at some port, _ he realizes.  _ She can’t make it alone. And I won’t let her. _

“We’ll figure something out,” he assures her, and she relaxes a little. “I’m going to see my sister. Will you be alright?”

Her eyes flit to the door. “Will I be...safe?”

“No one will bother you. I promise.”

She relaxes a little more. “Thank you.”

He leaves her to search for his sister. Asha is on the upper deck, sitting on a barrel and laughing, but she gets up to greet her brother when he reaches the top of the steps.

“Drink?” she offers, holding out her cup of ale.

He shakes his head. “I want to talk to you about Jeyne.”

“Alright.”

“I want her to stay with us.”

Asha raises an eyebrow. “You want that girl to stay with  _ us? _ Pirates?”

“It’s better than the life she just left.” He tells Asha about the brothel, and watches his sister’s face turn to stone. When he finishes, Asha nods.

“You’re right. Anything is better than the life she just left. And unless we can figure out who Varys was sending her to, or if he was even sending her someplace safe…” She shakes her head. “No, she’ll stay with us. Kokka Lo has children younger than her, why not bring her on? She’s an outcast just like us now. But are you sure this is what she wants?”

“I think,” Theon says slowly, “she just wants to feel safe.”

Asha gives him a wry smile. “She’ll be safe. With two hundred ironborn protecting her, how could she not be?”


	10. Chapter 10

Jeyne is safe with the fleet, though it takes her a while to feel that way. She hides in her cabin for days, and Theon and Kokka Lo’s wife, Saraya, have to bring her all her meals. Saraya and her daughters bring some clothes for Jeyne, too, gowns they’ve taken from merchant ships or bought in the Free Cities when they paid a visit, for Jeyne has no other clothes save the dress on her back.

Asha has spoken to the men and made it clear Jeyne is her guest, and she’s said as much to Jeyne, but the girl is still afraid to leave her cabin. Theon supposes he can’t blame her for that, but he does try to encourage her to leave when he comes to visit. 

“No one will hurt you,” he promises. “There are other women and girls with the fleet; Asha, and Hagen’s daughter, and some of the Summer Islanders. You’ve met some of them.” 

She hesitates. “Would...would you come with me?”

“Of course I would. I won’t let anything happen to you, Jeyne. I swear it.”

She nods, seeming relieved, yet when he opens the door, she clutches his jerkin. “Stay close to me. Please.”

“I will be right beside you.”

She grabs hold of his arm as they walk out of the cabin, trembling. Theon walks slowly, trying to look casual despite the vice-like grip she has on his arm. Some of the men in the galley watch them curiously, but Theon just throws japes at them until they’re laughing and paying Jeyne no mind. He leads her up the stairs and onto the deck, and she throws up her other arm to shield her eyes from the sunlight. Theon wonders when the last time she saw sunlight was. Did she ever see it in Littlefinger’s brothel? Did she leave her cabin between the time the ship left King’s Landing and when the ironborn captured it? This may be the first time in two years that she’s truly been out in the sunlight.

He walks slowly so she can adjust to the light, though she still squints beneath her hand. “How many ships are there?”

“Six now,” he says, seizing on the subject. “Four longships from the Iron Islands, and one swan ship from the Summer Islands.” He points. “That’s the  _ Black Wind, _ my sister’s ship. Beside it is the  _ Silverfin, _ which belongs to Tristifer Botley of Lordsport. Behind them are my cousin Quenton’s ship, the  _ Salty Wench, _ and my other cousin Dagon’s ship,  _ Drunkard’s Delight. _ ”

Jeyne has a small smile on her face. “That’s an odd name for a ship.”

“Once you meet Dagon, you’ll begin to understand.” He points. “That’s the Summer Islanders’ ship, the  _ Saffron Swan. _ See the prow, how it looks like a swan’s neck? It’s so that archers can fire on their enemies.”

“Do you have a ship?”

“I had one,” he says, remembering the  _ Sea Bitch. _ “But I lost it.”

“Why did your sister say she was going to name this one  _ Esgred? _ ”

His cheeks flush. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t want to discourage Jeyne from asking questions when it’s taken so long to get her this far. “A jape my sister played on me when I went back to Pyke. She made me look a fool, which I deserved.”

Jeyne peers up at him. “But you’re close now?”

“We are,” he agrees. “I was never close to my brothers, and I wasn’t even that close to Asha as a child, but now...I’d do anything for her. And she’d do anything for me.”

Jeyne bites her lip. “I always wanted a sister. Or a brother. My mother had four daughters besides me, but they all died in childbed or in the cradle, and the last one took my mother with her. Sansa was the closest thing I ever had to a sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Theon says, unsure of what else to say.

“It’s alright.” She hesitates. “Do you think...Sansa’s alright? Wherever she is?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I think so. The timing was...suspicious. For her to disappear the same hour Joffrey died.”

“He was a monster,” Jeyne says vehemently. “Two of the girls were sent to the Red Keep for his name-day, and when they came back, one of them was covered in bruises. He made one beat the other.”

That doesn’t surprise Theon, in truth. Joffrey had been a vicious little cunt even at Winterfell, when he was a prince and a guest besides. Theon can only imagine what the bastard was like as a king in his own castle. “I hope it was Sansa who killed him.”

Jeyne looks up at him in surprise. “Sansa didn’t kill him.”

That takes  _ him _ by surprise. “How do you know?”

“Because I  _ know _ Sansa. She wouldn’t kill anybody, not even Joffrey.”

He supposes that’s a fair point. “Then who do you think killed him? Tyrion Lannister?”

“No,” she says, surprising him again. “Lord Tyrion is very clever. If he was going to poison Joffrey, he wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

That’s a fair point, too. He doesn’t know the details, but it  _ does _ seem odd. Not that it matters now; Westeros is a long way away, and Theon doesn’t have any intention of returning. Neither, it seems, does Jeyne.

Asha strolls up to them, Kokka Lo and Saraya behind her. “Good to see you out and about, Lady Jeyne.”

Jeyne flushes. “I’m no lady.”

“Well, you’re the closest thing we have to a lady on this ship,” Asha amends. “Everything alright? Everyone been treating you well?”

“Yes, my lady. Er.” Jeyne flashes a worried look at Theon. “Your Grace?”

Asha grins. “You can just call me Asha. Like I said, you’re the closest thing to a lady we have on this ship. Most of the Summer Islanders were highborn, but they don’t use titles the way we do in Westeros. Did.”

Jeyne glances at Kokka Lo and Saraya. “I knew a prince from the Summer Islands.”

“A prince? Who did you know?” Kokka Lo asks genially.

“Jalabhar Xho.”

Kokka Lo and Saraya exclaim in the Summer Tongue.

“Jalabhar Xho!” Kokka Lo turns to Theon and Asha. “This is the prince who the last war saw exiled! It is because of his defeat that I came into my manse.” He turns back to Jeyne. “How did you come to know Jalabhar Xho?”

“He was a guest in King Robert’s court,” she explains. “He was trying to convince the king to help him take back his birthright.”

“Some bear exile better than others,” Saraya says tactfully. “Some bear it...worse. The priests tell us that those who have been exiled can never return.”

“If only it were that way everywhere,” Asha says with a grim look on her face. “My nuncle Crow’s Eye would still be sailing through the Smoking Sea, or hatching dragon’s eggs, or whatever it is he claims he was doing, and I would sit the Seastone Chair.”

“Maybe you will someday,” Jeyne offers.

Asha gives her a wry smile. “Maybe. And maybe white walkers will come again.” 

.

Jeyne stays above deck for their evening ritual of hopping from one ship to the next while playing music and drinking up a storm. She stays close to Theon, who keeps to the back and away from the action; he can tell that the noise and vivacity frighten her. The men  _ are _ rather loud, shouting and singing and hooting with laughter when a drunk Cromm challenges a drunker Dagon to a finger dance. Surprisingly, it’s Cromm who loses half of his pointer finger, while Dagon goes unscathed.

Jeyne looks like she might be sick. “This is...something the ironborn...normally do?”

“Once in a while,” Theon tells her, carefully moving himself so that she won’t have to look at anymore blood. “One of our kings supposedly took the Seastone Chair by winning a finger dance.”

“Maybe Asha should challenge your uncle to a finger dance.”

Theon grins. “Maybe. She’s good with her fingers.” He dies inside for a moment. “Do you want to see the  _ Saffron Swan _ ? It’s prettier than the other ships.”

Jeyne says that she does. They cross from the deck of the  _ Esgred _ to the neck of the  _ Saffron Swan _ ; Theon helps her down the slanting prow and onto the deck of the ship.

The Summer Islanders are playing their drums and their strings, dancing and singing along the deck. Jeyne does seem to enjoy the pageantry, but when two of the dancers give in to the passion of the dance and have each other then and there, her eyes widen. She looks up at Theon, askance. 

“They do it...in front of people?”

“Well...sometimes,” he says, feeling like that’s become his answer for everything. He’s so used to it that he’s forgotten how foreign it must seem to someone like Jeyne. “It’s, ah...a sacred art to them. Like praying.”

Jeyne’s eyes widen even more.  _ “Really?” _

“Aye. Didn’t your Jalabhar Xho ever tell you that?”

She lets out a small laugh. “No. We hardly ever talked. He was too busy trying to get King Robert’s attention. I don’t think the king ever meant to help him, though. I think he just liked having him around. Why are there so many exiles from the Summer Islands?”

“Their priests tell them when to have wars,” he explains, glancing around at the Summer Islanders. “It’s just one battle, though, and it’s more like a tourney melee than a real battle. They don’t kill the losers, just send them into exile.”

Jeyne considers this. “I wish more wars were like that.”

“It would be kinder,” he agrees. “But there would be a lot of people in exile.”

“Better than a lot of dead people.”

She has him there.

.

At the end of the night, after he’s escorted her back to her cabin, Jeyne asks one boon of him. 

“A knife?” he repeats in surprise. “Do you even know how to use a knife?”

“No,” she admits. “But I would feel better if I had one.”

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he tries to tell her, but she shakes her head.

“I know, but...I would still feel better.”

Theon considers...and then pulls out his own dirk, handing it to her. “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to,” he warns her. 

“I won’t,” she promises, taking the dirk carefully by the hilt. “But, if I  _ do _ have to use it…?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

It’s a fair question; she’s safe, but it may not always be that way. “I’ll show you. Another time.”

She nods, fingers curling around the hilt. “Thank you, Theon. For...for everything.” She sinks back into her cabin, closing the door behind her. 

Theon finds Asha in her cabin, poring over the maps the captain left behind. 

“Still trying to figure out where he was going?” Theon asks as he invites himself in.

“I’ve given up on that. I’m trying to figure out where  _ we’re _ going next.” Asha’s finger traces the Narrow Sea. “If we keep north, we’ll end up in Braavos. If we go beyond Braavos, that takes us to the Shivering Sea, which at any other time I would say would be a pretty adventure, but, well, you know the Stark words. Winter is coming, and the Shivering Sea is already one of the more treacherous seas, if what I’ve heard is true; add winter on top of that--”

“--and our longships won’t fare well,” he finishes for her. “Then do you want to turn around?”

“I want to get to Braavos at least,” she decides. “And then head south. More ships will be crossing now than ever, trying to make as many trades as possible before winter sets in and makes it too dangerous. We can stock up on what we need and settle down in the Stepstones to wait out the winter.”

“And then?”

“Fuck, Theon, I don’t know,” she says with more exhaustion than irritation. “Maybe we’ll just stay in the Stepstones forever. The men seem to like it.”

“But you want more.”

She swallows. “I’ll never stop wanting the Seastone Chair. But I have six ships and less than three hundred men, women, and children to sail them. We can’t take on Euron.” She sinks into a chair, drinking deeply from her goblet. “How’s your Lady Jeyne?”

“She’s not  _ my _ Lady Jeyne,” he protests. 

“She never left your side.”

“She’s afraid. Of everything, but mostly men, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve got quite a lot of those.” He flops down in the chair opposite his sister. “She asked me for a knife.”

“A knife?”

“So she’d feel safe.”

Asha gives him a bemused look. “Didn’t think she had it in her, to be honest. She’s stronger than she looks.”

“She’s of the North,” he says, a note of pride creeping into his voice. 

“Well, wherever she’s from, let’s hope she stops being so afraid of the men.”

“Maybe if they stop finger dancing in front of her she will be.”

.

It takes time, but Jeyne does slowly warm up to the crew. She prefers the company of the women, but she also learns to put her trust in men who aren’t Theon; his cousin Quenton, Tristifer Botley, Kokka Lo, Qarl the Maid, and Hagen the Horn. 

“What’s his daughter’s name?” she asks Theon of this last one. “Everyone just calls her ‘Hagen’s daughter’.”

“It’s because no one knows,” Theon tells her. “He always just calls her his daughter, and it’s gone on for so long that now everyone is afraid to ask.”

Jeyne stares at him. “You mean  _ no one _ knows her name?”

“Hagen does, but try getting it out of him without making it obvious. It’s harder than it seems. Believe me, I’ve tried.” He has, and it hadn’t gone well; Hagen had gotten a dark look on his face and demanded to know why Theon was asking so many questions about his daughter. Theon had ducked out of there before it got ugly, but he hasn’t had the courage to speak to Hagen or his daughter since then.

Jeyne considers this. “Well, I’ll find out, I bet.”

“If you say so.”

She ignores that. “When do we reach Braavos?”

“Soon. A couple more days, I’d imagine.”

She leans over the side of the ship, peering into the water. She thought saw porpoises earlier and keeps looking for them, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her there aren’t any porpoises in these waters. “Have you ever been? To Braavos?”

He shakes his head. “Not in the city itself, no. Just...close by.”

“You plundered some ships, is what you mean,” she says wryly.

“You could say that.”

“I  _ am _ saying it.”

“Then yes, we plundered some ships, and we may again,” he allows. “In fact, I imagine we’ll do quite a bit more plundering in the months to come. Winter is coming.”

Jeyne glances at him. She knows the words as well as him. “And that means we have to...plunder?”

“It means we have to prepare.” He leans against the side to mirror her. “The sea is harder to travel in the winter. There will be fewer and fewer ships crossing the Narrow Sea, and the pickings will be slim. Right now is the best time, when everyone is trying to hurry up and trade before they settle in for the winter.”

“And what happens during the winter?” she wants to know.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Hide out in the Stepstones. Head south for Naath or the Basilisk Isles. Maybe even Sothoryos. They say winter never comes that far south.”

“They also say Sothoryos is home to cannibals and diseases and bats that can drink all of a man’s blood in the blink of an eye,” Jeyne points out. 

“Then Naath, which I hear is full of butterflies.”

“Didn’t you ever pay attention to Maester Luwin?” Jeyne asks. “When Nymeria and the Rhoynar landed on Naath, many of them were killed by a fever carried by these butterflies.”

He does remember that, now that she mentions it, but he doesn’t want to think about Maester Luwin right now. “Alright then, where do  _ you _ think we should go?”

She looks out at the horizon for a long moment, thinking. “There was a man once,” she says slowly, “who wasn’t...he wasn’t  _ kind, _ exactly, none of them were, but he gave me a jade and pearl bracelet from Yi Ti. He said jade and pearls are so commonplace there that the princes sprinkle them over their sweetmeats and live in palaces of gold. They have lots of princes, but only one emperor, who’s also their god.” Her face falls. “Lord Baelish took the bracelet after the man left. He said men didn’t ask for me because of my jewelry.”

Not for the first time, Theon has a strong desire to find this Lord Baelish and give him a good thrashing. “We’ll go to Yi Ti,” he finds himself promising. “Someday. And you can have all the jade and pearls you like.”

Jeyne gives him a small, hopeful sort of smile. 

.

Theon has always heard stories about the Titan of Braavos, but nothing quite compares to seeing the real thing. Even from far away, the shape of the giant man rising up above the waves, his broken sword raised in warning, sends a chill down Theon’s spine. 

The bronze statue emits a horrible, groaning roar when they get closer, and Jeyne clamps her hands over her ears. “Why’s it doing that?!”

“The Titan’s roar,” Asha explains. “To warn the Braavosi of approaching ships.”

“They know we’re pirates?!”

“No,” Asha laughs. “They do that for every ship. Tradition more than anything. The Titan also roars at sunrise, sunset, and at the start of each new hour. The Braavosi are used to it; they won’t think twice.”

And no one does; they sail into the harbor without so much as a look, and pay the harbormaster to dock the ships. 

Most of the men head for the Ragman’s Harbor, which is where all the foreigners head for ale and women. Most of the Summer Islanders head for the markets, and to Theon’s relief, Jeyne decides to go with them. He hands Saraya a fat purse of coin before she goes, asking her to buy Jeyne whatever she wants. Saraya smiles and nods, taking the purse and Jeyne.

“Got rid of your shadow?” Droopeye Dale teases as Theon jogs to catch up with the men.

“Don’t listen to Droopeye,” Quenton says, throwing an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “He’s just jealous; he smells so bad the ladies can’t stand him.”

The men hoot with laughter, piling onto the jests as Droopeye shoves them good-naturedly. 

They end up at a brothel called the Happy Port, where there are three men to every woman. Some of the men go in search of other brothels, but Theon likes the atmosphere here; there’s a mural on the wall of a ship crewed by women in nothing but thigh high boots, and there’s a woman with a mustache and another without an eye, but men are fighting over them all the same.

“Westerosi?” the proprietress, a woman named Merry, asks as she sets ale before him and Asha. “The Sailor’s Wife is from Westeros, you’d like her, though you have to marry her before you can bed her.”

“Marry her?” Asha repeats with raised eyebrows. 

“Just a lark,” Merry says, smiling. “A little thing she says she has to do before she beds a man. Or, if you like your women younger, there’s her daughter, Lanna, though she’s thrice as much as the other girls. Lanna!”

A golden-haired girl comes up beside Merry, and Theon’s stomach turns. She looks even younger than Jeyne. 

“How old are you?” he asks, and Lanna blinks at him.

“Fourteen, milord.”

“Too young for me,” he says tersely. “And I’m not keen to marry.” He stands up, his desire for a woman gone. “I’ll find you later,” he tells his sister, leaving the Happy Port. He walks in the direction he saw the Summer Islanders head, eager for a distraction. 

Fourteen. Around the same age as Jeyne when she was forced into Littlefinger’s brothel, maybe a little older. She hadn’t seemed upset or afraid--but then, she hadn’t been locked away in a room. Her mother is a whore. Maybe the lifestyle isn’t as unpleasant to her if it’s all she’s ever known.

_ But fourteen. _

He finally does catch up with Jeyne and the Summer Islanders at the markets, where Saraya is haggling with a Pentoshi merchant. Most of her daughters have scattered, and Jeyne looks bored by the proceedings. She smiles when she sees Theon, leaving Saraya’s side to join him. 

“Didn’t like the Happy Port?”

He starts. “How did you--”

“I’m not stupid. I know that’s where all the men were headed.” 

Theon feels abashed. “I’m not...I didn’t want you to think...less of me.”

“I could never.” She shrugs. “You’re a man. You’ve been a long time without a woman. I know how it works.”

He’d prefer she didn’t. “Well, to answer your question, no, I didn’t like it.”

Jeyne nods, seeming to understand. “I found out Hagen’s daughter’s name.”

“You did?” he asks, perplexed. “Well, what is it?”

“It’s Hagena.”

He stares at her. “No it is not.”

“It is,” Jeyne insists. “She told me so.”

“Her name is  _ not _ Hagena. That’s got to be a bad jape.”

“It  _ is _ Hagena. Hagena!” she calls, and to his horror, the woman herself appears before him, grinning. “Tell Theon your name is Hagena,” Jeyne instructs her.

“My name is Hagena,” Hagena says dutifully.

Theon glances between the two. “Is this a trick?”

“The trick was seeing how long it would take before anyone would ask,” Hagena says, her grin widening. “Father and I knew for years that no one knew my name. We thought it was great fun, for him to only call me ‘daughter’ and pretend to get upset if anyone dropped any hints. In all that time, no one outright asked us. Except Jeyne.”

Jeyne beams. “You see, I  _ told _ you I’d find out.”

“Well that’s...something,” Theon says, still not fully believing the other woman.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Hagena orders him. “We want to see how long we can keep it going with the rest of the crew.” And with that, she saunters back to the wine stall Saraya’s older daughters are visiting.

Theon shakes his head. “That’s a stupid name.”

“It’s lovely,” Jeyne insists. 

He shakes his head again. “Did Saraya buy you anything?”

“Some bolts of silk, so I can make dresses.” She tilts her head. “Was the Happy Port as bad as all that? That you’d rather look at bolts of silk with the women?”

“I happen to like silk,” he says in mock-indignation. “But I prefer velvet if I can find it.”

“You need a nice velvet tunic,” she decides. “A golden kraken on a black field, so everyone knows who you are. We can even add some pearls and rubies.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“I saw some velvet back this way.” She takes his arm, pulling him to the cloth merchant. The man speaks perfect Common, and shows them his gold and black velvets. He even holds them up against Theon and shows him a mirror so he can see what he’d look like. Theon likes them, his vanity indulged, and he agrees to buy them.

“I’m good at making clothes,” Jeyne says with an excitement he hasn’t seen in her since...well, since Winterfell. “I can start making it tonight, and it can be ready by--” She goes quiet, eyes wide.

“What is it?” he asks, turning in the direction she’s staring, and then he’s staring too.

Because looking right at them is Arya Stark.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s Robb’s little sister alright, but she’s different now. She’s taller than the last time he saw her, but only a little, and the childish roundness in her cheeks has given way to her father’s long face. Her dark hair is braided high on her head in two buns the way so many women here wear their hair, and her garb is Braavosi, but those grey eyes are all Arya Stark.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. Her voice is lower now, too, not the squeaky little chirp he remembers. 

Theon opens his mouth, but she isn’t finished. “You killed Bran and Rickon.”

He swallows “I didn’t.”

“I know you did,” she says harshly. Her hand flicks, and Theon catches a glint of silver. Gods, does she mean to open his throat here in the middle of the street?

“He didn’t.” Jeyne moves slowly in front of him, and he finds it ironic, that the scared young girl he found a few weeks ago is protecting him now. “It was a lie. Bran and Rickon were alive when he left Winterfell. We don’t know what’s happened to them since.”

Arya’s eyes flit between their faces, her own screwed up in concentration. “Do you swear it?”

“I swear it,” Theon tells her. “By the old gods and the new.”

Arya stares at him for so long it feels like she’s trying to read his very thoughts...and then her shoulders sag. “You’re not lying.” She puts her knife away. “I know how to lie. You’re not doing it.” She glances between the two. “But still. What are you  _ doing _ here? Both of you?”

“It’s a long story,” Jeyne says softly. “As I’m sure yours is. We all thought you were dead.”

“I thought  _ you _ were dead.” Arya glances around. “I can sit and talk...for a while. Nabbo’s Bridge is quiet. But you have to buy some of my fish. I can’t come home until everything’s been sold.”

“We’ll buy the whole wheelbarrow,” Theon says bluntly, “if you’ll tell us where you’ve been and how you came to be here.”

.

Theon does buy the whole wheelbarrow, and he, Jeyne, and Arya sit beneath Nabbo’s Bridge while they eat the mussels, cockles, and clams inside. 

Arya insists on him and Jeyne telling their tales first, so they do. Theon tells Arya about the march south, and sailing to Pyke, and taking Winterfell, and fleeing the kingsmoot. Jeyne tells her tale, her voice shaking, but she pushes through it; even so, he offers his hand, which she grips tightly until she’s finished.

Arya had listened impassively to his own tale, but her face hardens when Jeyne tells hers. The two girls had never gotten along; Jeyne was the one who started Arya Horseface, and she and Sansa used to laugh at Arya and make fun of her. But Arya takes Jeyne’s other hand now, a look of solemn concern on her face. 

“I’ll put Littlefinger on my list,” she promises.

“Your list?”

She blinks at the both of them. “Of people I’m going to kill.”

Theon decides to store that away for later. “And what about you?”

Arya, as it turns out, has had more adventures than even Theon, and he’s a  _ pirate. _

“When the Lannisters attacked, my dancing master held them off while I fled. I lived on the streets for a few days. I saw the commotion when they took Father to the Great Sept to hear his confession.” Her voice tightens. “There was a man from the Night’s Watch, Yoren...he recognized me. He didn’t let me look while Ilyn Payne cut off Father’s head. Then Yoren cut my hair short and told me I was to be Arry the orphan boy. He was taking men and boys to the Wall to take the black, and when we got to Winterfell, I could be Arya again. But we never got that far. We were somewhere in the Riverlands when the Mountain’s men attacked us.”

“Why would they attack Night’s Watch recruits?” Jeyne asks, confused.

“They were after my friend,” Arya says. “I still don’t know why. They took the survivors to Harrenhal. I served as a cupbearer to Tywin Lannister and to Roose Bolton.”

“Gods,” Theon laughs in disbelief, “you were right under their noses.”

“I was,” she says smugly. “We escaped Harrenhal, me and my two friends, only then we got captured by the Brotherhood without Banners. They’re outlaws,” she explains, seeing the uncomprehending looks on Theon’s and Jeyne’s faces. “Led by Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr.”

“Beric Dondarrion?” Jeyne asks, something like a smile on her face. 

“He’s not handsome anymore,” Arya says flatly. “He’s missing an eye, and he’s been killed six times.”

“ _ Killed _ ?”

“The Lord of Light always brings him back,” Arya explains, as if this means anything to the other two. “They were going to take me to Robb and ransom me, but then the Hound captured me because  _ he _ wanted to ransom me to Robb. We were on our way to the Twins, where my uncle Edmure was supposed to marry a Frey girl.”

Theon’s stomach turns. “You were at the Red Wedding?”

“Outside of it,” Arya says sadly. “We got there right as the killing started. They barred the doors and wouldn’t let us in. I saw them kill Grey Wind, and later they cut off his head and sewed it to Robb’s body. They rode him around on his horse chanting  _ the King in the North, the King in the North. _ ”

Theon feels sick. Even now, even a year later, the thought of Robb’s death weighs heavily on him, and now to learn that they sewed Grey Wind’s head onto his body…”

“How did you get away?” Jeyne asks softly.

Arya shakes her head, as if to clear it of the memories. “We just rode. No one stopped us. He tried to take me to the Vale, to ransom me to my Aunt Lysa, but when we got there, they told us she was dead.” She swallows. “I...got away from the Hound, eventually. Found a Braavosi ship called the  _ Titan’s Daughter. _ You see, one of the men who was part of the Night’s Watch recruits...he wasn’t a normal man. He was a Faceless Man.”

Theon’s heard of the Faceless Men. They’re supposed to be the best assassins in the world, because they can supposedly wear another man’s face like their own. So what one of them was doing as a Night’s Watch recruit…

“He gave me an iron coin,” she continues, “and explained that if I ever wanted to find him again, I should give the coin to any man from Braavos. The captain brought me here, and showed me to the House of Black and White. It’s the temple of the Faceless Men,” she explains to Jeyne, who looks confused. “They’re teaching me to become a Faceless Man.”

“Aren’t the Faceless Men...killers?” Jeyne asks uncertainly.

“Yes.”

“And you...want to become one?”

Arya glances around them, as if looking out for eavesdroppers. “I told you. I have a list. All the people I’m going to kill.”

“ _ All _ the people you’re going to kill?” Theon asks in disbelief. “How many is that, exactly?”

Arya purses her lips. “Seven. Well, eight now, with Littlefinger. It’s him, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Mountain, the red woman, Beric Dondarrion, and Thoros of Myr.”

Theon and Jeyne trade looks. 

“So, you’re training to be a Faceless Man so you can kill these people? Who have, I assume, wronged you in some way?”

“I  _ will _ kill them,” Arya says stubbornly, sounding like her old self. 

“Why is Meryn Trant on your list?” Jeyne asks.

Arya glances at her. “He killed my dancing master, Syrio Forel. He died so I could escape.”

Jeyne nods. “I hope you do kill him, for what it’s worth.”

Arya’s eyes search her face. “Did he hurt you?”

“Yes,” Jeyne says softly. “Many times.”

“Look,” Theon says, glancing between the two girls, “we’d all like to hurt Meryn Trant, and Cersei Lannister, and a lot of other people, I imagine, but...this isn’t the life for you, Arya.”

Arya’s face hardens. “And what is? My parents are dead, Robb is dead, the rest of my siblings are all missing. Even my aunt I never met is dead, and my uncle Edmure who I also never met is a prisoner of the Freys. Winterfell and the North belong to the Lannisters. The only people who were kind to me after my father died wanted to ransom me to somebody else. I don’t have anybody.”

“That’s not true.” Jeyne reaches over to take her hand. “You have us. We may not be much, and we may not be your family, but we’re friends. Isn’t that better than becoming a killer?”

“I’m already a killer,” Arya says harshly, yanking back her hand. “I killed men a long time before I came to the House of Black and White.”

_ They should not have had to grow up so fast, _ Theon thinks, watching the two girls.  _ They should have stayed at Winterfell. We all should have stayed at Winterfell, Lord Stark most of all. _

“And we were never friends,” the younger girl adds. “You were mean to me and called me names, and you,” she says, turning to Theon, “were Robb’s friend, not mine.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeyne says sincerely. “I was a stupid little girl back then. And you’re right. The three of us weren’t friends. But we can be. Are these Faceless Men your friends?”

Arya hesitates. “No…”

“Do you think they’ll take care of you? Make you smile? Look after you when you’re sick or wounded?”

Doubt forms in Arya’s eyes. “No one will need to take care of me. I’ll take care of myself. And I won’t need to smile.”

“A life without smiling doesn’t sound like much of a life at all,” Jeyne continues. “Come with us, Arya. You always liked the stories about Nymeria, I remember. Asha is a warrior queen, too. You’d like her.”

He can see Arya trying not to look too interested in the mention of his sister. “Would I?”

“She’s the best warrior I know,” Theon says honestly. “Her men would follow her into the Sunset Sea if she asked them to. Come by the ship sometime and meet her.”

Arya is still looking at her clamshell, feigning nonchalance. “Which ship is this?”

“The  _ Esgred. _ You can’t miss it; it’s with four ironborn longships, and a Summer Islander swan ship.”

He hides a smirk as he watches Arya’s eyes widen; she quickly schools her face back into a nonchalant mask. “I’ll think about it.”

“Being an assassin sounds very interesting and all that,” he continues, sounding as if he doesn’t find it that interesting at all, “but being a pirate is much more rewarding. You can still kill people, if that’s your wish, but you can laugh and drink and spend your plunder on anything you want. Even Jeyne’s a pirate.”

Arya clears her throat. “I have to go.”

“Where? I bought all your wares.” 

“I just...have to.” Arya stands up, visibly thinking. Jeyne starts to protest, but Theon shakes his head, watching Arya take her wheelbarrow and trundle away.

“I hope she comes with us,” Jeyne says fervently. 

“I think she will.” He leans back against a step. “I think she just needs time to think.”

Jeyne turns to fully face him. “Do assassins  _ let _ young girls train to become one?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have thought it, but...it’s not a bad idea, actually. The younger they are, the easier they are to train. And who would suspect a young girl of being an assassin?” Seeing the distress on Jeyne’s face, he’s quick to add, “But I don’t think it’s the life for Arya. I think she had nowhere else to go. But now that she knows she has a choice…”

They’re both quiet for a moment, thinking. The late afternoon sun is beginning to lower in the sky, the clouds streaked with pinks and purples. Lights come up in the windows, and merchants begin to close up their stalls.

“We should get back to the ship,” Theon says, standing up. He pulls Jeyne to her feet and tucks the bolts of velvet underneath his arm as they head back. Music from different taverns and brothels wafts over the canals and echoes beneath the bridges. It’s really quite a beautiful city. Maybe Asha can be convinced to stay long enough to let Arya make up her mind. He thinks his sister would like the girl; they’re of a similar mind, and he’s sure that if they met one another, Arya would be on the  _ Esgred _ in a heartbeat.

He does want Arya to come because it would be a better life for her, but he also wants her to come because it will not have felt like he failed Robb so terribly then. He could not protect Robb or Lady Catelyn, or Bran or Rickon or Sansa, but he could at least watch over Arya. He could at least keep safe the last Stark.

.

Arya does not come to the  _ Esgred _ the next day, or the next. Theon asks the men left to guard the ships to keep an eye out for her, but she never comes. Nor does he find her on the streets, though he and Jeyne go back to the cloth merchants and Nabbo’s Bridge to try and find her again. They ask the merchants, too, the ones that speak the Common Tongue, but most of them have no idea who she is.

“Just some girl who sells oysters,” the man who sold Theon the velvet says with a shrug. 

Oddly, it’s a mummer with a pet seal who does tricks for coin who tells them that her name is Cat.

“Cat of the Canals,” the man, Tagganaro, says, while Casso, King of the Seals, barks like some strange sort of dog. He tosses a fish absentmindedly at the seal, who catches it to the entertainment of those watching. “She brings her wheelbarrow here almost every day, though once in a while she’ll go to Purple Harbor.”

“Is that far?”

Tagganaro laughs, shaking his head. “Purple Harbor is only for the Braavosi. They won’t let you near it.” He pockets some of the coins. “Why the interest in Cat, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We’re friends,” Jeyne says.

Tagganaro, thankfully, does not seem surprised. “Knew that girl was from Westeros, but she never would say where she was from. I’ve been trying to get her to join my act for ages now. I’d pay her better than what she’s making now. You tell her that if you see her. Tell her Tagganaro would pay her well, and she wouldn’t have to smell like fish.”

“If we see her, we will,” Theon says with a straight face. “And if you see her, will you tell her her friends from Westeros were looking for her?”

Tagganaro says that he will; Theon tosses him a silver coin for his troubles, and in thanks, Casso holds out his flipper for Jeyne to shake. She takes his fin, giggling, and giggles harder when the seal plants what can only be a very wet kiss on her cheek. 

“Casso, you know you’re only supposed to do that for gold,” Tagganaro scolds, tossing the seal a fish anyway. Jeyne takes Theon’s arm as they set off. 

“Should we try Purple Harbor?” Jeyne asks, but Theon shakes his head. 

“If what Tagganaro said is true, they won’t let us in.” He heaves a sigh. “I don’t think Arya wants us to find her.”

Jeyne looks distressed. “But Asha wants to leave in two days.”

It’s true; as beautiful a city as Braavos is, Asha and the crew are ready to leave. They don’t speak the language, they’ve bartered everything they intended to barter, and their need for women has been slaked many times over. They’re ready to head back out to open waters. 

That day under Nabbo’s Bridge may well be the last time Theon ever sees Arya. He can’t help feeling sorrowful, not just at the thought of never seeing the Stark girl again, but also at the thought of failing her. Of failing Robb. Arya will become a coldblooded killer, and it will be his fault.

_ It all comes back to Winterfell, _ he thinks miserably.  _ If I hadn’t taken it, none of this would have happened. Winterfell would still belong to the Starks, and Arya would have had a place to go home to, instead of a place to run away from.  _

“We might have to leave without her,” he says gently to Jeyne now. 

But she shakes her head. “We can’t. She’s one of us.”

“I don’t think she wants to be one of us.”

Jeyne looks as if she might cry.

“We’ll find her,” he finds himself promising. “One way or another.”

.

As it turns out, they don’t need to.

The ironborn and Summer Islanders and the sailors from King’s Landing drink and make merry on their own ships that night, tired of trying to speak through garbled Braavosi to get a drink or a fuck. They drink from their own stores, and they were going to invite some whores, but Tagganaro had warned them not to trouble with the dockside whores as they’d sooner cut a man’s throat than pleasure him. 

Thirty of them are bellowing out “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” when Roggon Rustbeard grips Theon’s shoulder, shouting in his ear, “There’s a girl here asking for you!”

Theon doesn’t dare to hope...but as he comes towards the gangplank, he sees that Arya is indeed standing before it, eyes wide as she takes in the merriment. 

“You came!” he exclaims, unable to hide his grin. 

“I had to think about it.” A disbelieving smile creeps over her face. “These are  _ ironborn? _ ”

“And Summer Islanders, and a few men from King’s Landing. Pirates all.”

Arya is won over; he can see it at once. “Can I have some ale?”

He laughs. “Why not? If you join us you’ll be drinking plenty of it. Come on.” He leads Arya to a barrel, where he takes an empty cup and holds it under the spigot. Arya, to his amusement, drinks it like one accustomed to it. After all she’s seen and done, why not?

.

Arya has a good time with the crew, if looks can be believed. She teaches the ironborn some Braavosi swears and picks up a few in other languages, listens and laughs at their bawdy songs, and watches the finger dances whenever they break out. 

Most of all, though, she stays close to Asha, looking at the woman with such deep admiration that she’s nearly drooling. Asha is everything the girl has ever wanted to be; a warrior who has the respect of her men, a woman who defies convention, and a pirate with a heart of gold. 

Asha, in turn, is delighted by Arya; they compare knives and trade tales, and when they’ve had enough to drink, they both gang up on Theon, pulling every embarrassing memory from childhood they can. He would hate it, but his joy at seeing the two of them together and liking each other outweighs the shame of the things he said and did as a boy. 

When Arya excuses herself to take a piss (her words, not Theon’s), Asha turns to her brother with a smile. “I see why you’re so fond of the girl.”

“Told you you’d like her. Am I to assume I have your permission to bring her with us when we leave?”

“Not just my permission, you have my most heartfelt entreaties,” Asha only half-jests. “She would make an excellent pirate. She’d make an excellent ironborn warrior, too. She’s the daughter I’ll never have.”

“You should name her your heir. The ironborn should be ruled by fierce woman warriors from now to the end of time.”

Asha laughs. “That would be something.” She reaches over, pinching her brother’s cheek. “But no one could ever replace you, baby brother.”

“What do you mean?”

She gives him a funny look. “You’re my heir.”

They’ve never talked about it like that, Theon’s place in the line of succession. Quite honestly, he’d assumed he didn’t have one. Not that he’d expected his sister to have children of her own, but the idea of being her heir had never really occurred to him before. If he wasn’t good enough to be named at the kingsmoot, why should he be good enough when the Drowned God takes his sister?

“I shouldn’t be,” he says honestly. “I’m not a good leader. I’m not even a very good ironborn.”

“Theon, in the last two years, I’ve watched you grow into a man I’m proud to call my brother,” she says sincerely. “You were a snarling boy eager to prove himself on Pyke, but that boy is long gone now. You humbled yourself in the greatest way to ask for my help, you named me your queen when it would have been so easy to name yourself king, and you have followed me without question. I trust you more than any man here, and you know how deeply I trust my men.”

He does, and it touches him all the more because of it. 

“I don’t deserve your confidence in me,” he mutters.

“You do, and you have it,” she says firmly. “Now go see what’s taking Arya so long, I want her to finish her story about the Black Pearl.”

Theon rolls his eyes in good humor, getting up to go find the girl. She probably got lost, or distracted.

He finds her in the ship’s underbelly, talking in a low, urgent voice to Jeyne. The two girls are alone, solemn looks on their faces, and when they look up at his approach, he can see that Jeyne’s been crying.

“What are you two doing?” he asks, glancing between them.

They look at each other and come to some sort of silent agreement.

“Meryn Trant is in Braavos,” Arya says at last.

Theon raises his eyebrows. “ _ The _ Meryn Trant?”  _ The one who beat and raped Jeyne in Littlefinger’s brothel? _

“Yes,” Arya says. “I saw him. He was with a Westerosi lord. I think he was a Tyrell because of the roses.”

Jeyne wipes her eyes. “It’s good we’re leaving soon. So I won’t have to see him.” 

“I could kill him for you,” Theon offers, only half in jest. He would kill Meryn Trant if it came down to it. Hell, he might kill Meryn Trant just because it would put Jeyne’s mind at ease.

But Arya scowls. “You can’t kill Meryn Trant. He’s a Kingsguard, and he struck down Syrio Forel, who was First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos.”

She has a point; Theon may be a good fighter, but you don’t become a knight of the Kingsguard for nothing. 

“Isn’t he on your list?” he asks instead.

Arya falls silent. 

Jeyne places a tentative hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Arya said she’ll come with us.”

That surprises and relieves him. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Arya says. “I’ve thought about it. You’re right. This isn’t the life for me. I wanted it to be, but...I think what I wanted more than that was to have a family.” Her breath hitches. “Even if we’re not blood...we are family. The three of us. We were all raised at Winterfell together, and that has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he agrees. “I’m glad to hear it, Arya. You’ll like it here.” His smile widens. “My sister’s asking for you. She wants to hear your story about the Black Pearl.”

Looking delighted at the thought, Arya rushes past him to find Asha. Jeyne follows, but Theon stops her. 

“Are you alright?”

She blinks at him, her eyes bright...but she does not cry. “I will be.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains attempted rape and flashbacks/depictions of rape. Please use caution and feel free to shoot me a comment/DM on tumblr if you have any questions or concerns.

She’s so scared she can hardly breathe.

She and Arya had talked it over and over and over, she knows exactly what to do and how to do it, but it still doesn’t erase the fear. Just the thought of  _ seeing _ him again, of being in the same room as him…

Maybe it’s alright that she’s afraid. He’d liked her afraid. He’d liked it when she was trembling and crying and begging for mercy. The only mercy was when he left her room, though not before bruising her inside and out. 

_ It won’t be like that this time, _ she thinks, but even so, she trembles so hard that the bed is quivering. 

She hears him before she sees him; she hears his heavy footfalls and the clink of his armor, and then the door is opening and she’s so frightened she feels as though she’ll be sick.

Ser Meryn freezes when he sees her on his bed, but there’s no missing the recognition in his eyes. He knows her. How could he not? He used to come to Lord Baelish’s brothel especially for her, used to pay with Lannister gold to do whatever he wanted to her, save maim and kill her. 

She cries for true, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please,” she says, trembling in her shift. “Don’t hurt me again, ser, please.”

Ser Meryn closes the door behind him, and bars it. It both frightens and relieves her. “What are you doing here?” he demands, setting down his helm.

She shakes her head, choking on her tears. “He sent me...I didn’t...I didn’t know...I’ve always done as I was told,” she sobs. She wasn’t supposed to cry in front of the customers, but Ser Meryn had liked it. All the pain and fear and loneliness would catch up with her when he paid her a visit, and she’d cry until there was nothing left inside her. “I’ve been good, you know I have.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at her as he begins to take off his armor. Jeyne buries her face in her hands, trying to compose herself before she loses her wits. Her hands are shaking, her whole body trembling. Suddenly, desperately, she wishes Theon was here.

“Look at me, girl.”

She obeys, lifting her eyes to his. He looks at her with satisfaction. “We’re at an inn, and Lord Tyrell is in the room beside me, so you must be quiet. If anyone hears you, it will be the worse for you.”

She nods, forcing her mouth closed so that no more sound escapes.

Ser Meryn stalks to the bed in his tunic and breeches, both stained with sweat. 

_ He’s revolting, _ Jeyne thinks, barely able to conceal her own contempt. He was always sweaty when he’d take her, having worked himself into a frenzy from beating her. That was one of the worst parts, how sweaty she felt afterwards. One luxury she’d always been afforded at Lord Baelish’s brothel was having as many baths as she wanted, and she’d take scalding hot ones after Ser Meryn came to call on her.

He grips her chin now, so hard that she lets out a small whimper of pain. He tilts her head this way and that, examining her.

“You’re getting old,” he says at last. 

“Thank you, ser,” Jeyne grits out.

Ser Meryn draws back his hand, and Jeyne is already recoiling, but his eyes widen and blood starts trickling down his throat, and Jeyne realizes that a pinprick sized blade has pierced him. She sits frozen on the bed, watching as Ser Meryn’s hands, those big, meaty hands that brought her so much pain, flutter to his throat as if to staunch the flow of blood. He staggers to the side, choking on his own blood as Arya holds her blade aloft. 

“Do you remember me?” she demands in a low, dangerous voice, and Ser Meryn only chokes. “You killed Syrio Forel. You stripped and beat my sister. You beat and raped Jeyne. And now I’m going to kill you.” 

Ser Meryn raises a hand to stop her blade, but it pierces his hand, and fresh blood pours from his throat as he tries to scream. He pulls back his wounded hand, curling it against his chest; Arya whips the blade across his legs, making him fall to his knees. He looks up at her, his beard and shirt and hands stained with his blood.

_ “Valar morghulis,” _ Arya says, and pierces his heart.

Jeyne has never been able to stand the sight of blood. She’d wept hysterically when that knight from the Vale had died in the tourney, and when the Hound had taken her from her room, the sight of the blood everywhere had frightened her out of her wits. Even when she was in Lord Baelish’s brothel, the sight of her own blood had drawn tears.

But as she watches Ser Meryn die now, blood flowing from his mouth, throat, hand, heart, and legs, she finds herself strangely numb. 

_ I’m glad he’s dead, _ she thinks bitterly.  _ I’m glad Arya cut him and made him bleed. I’m glad he’ll never, ever hurt me again. _

Arya cleans her blade on the back of his tunic, sliding it through her belt. “Come on,” she says, breathing hard. “We have to get out of here.”

Jeyne does not need to be told twice; she climbs out of the bed, pulling her dress over her head. Arya pushes open the shutters and, peering this way and that, decides the coast is clear. She climbs out of the window as nimble as a cat, pulling herself up onto the eaves. Then she holds out her hands for Jeyne.

Jeyne isn’t as quick or agile as Arya, and she’s certainly not used to climbing roofs and running across them, but she manages to climb up beside Arya. They hop from one eave to the next, and then Arya leaps onto a roof across the alley. 

“Don’t think about it!” she hisses to Jeyne, who’s eyeing the distance with no small amount of trepidation. “Just jump!”

Jeyne takes a deep breath and leaps.

She stumbles on the roof, but Arya rights her.

“Take off your shoes,” the younger girl suggests. “It’ll be easier.”

Jeyne mislikes the idea of running over dirty roofs barefoot, but she mislikes the idea of slipping and falling even more. She takes off her shoes, tying the laces around her belt so she won’t lose them. Then she takes Arya’s hand and follows the other girl. 

Braavos is a beautiful city from the ground, and it’s somehow even more beautiful from the rooftops. Cobblestone streets glow like rivers beneath them, and the real canals sparkle with lamplight. There are brilliantly dressed bravos, courtesans, and members of nobility, but Jeyne only catches fleeting glimpses of their silks and velvets as she and Arya leap from one building to the next. 

There are others on the roofs too, most of them children with dirty faces and dirtier clothes. They don’t bother Jeyne and Arya, but then, Jeyne and Arya are moving too quickly for anyone to bother them. 

Jeyne doesn’t stop to think about Ser Meryn or any of it. She doesn’t have time. She feels like she’s flying, her feet barely touching the roofs as she and Arya hop and sprint. How could she care about Ser Meryn at a time like this?

When they finally slow to a stop, Arya tells Jeyne to put her shoes back on. Jeyne can’t see well enough up here, but she’s sure her feet are filthy as she sits down to put on her shoes and lace them up. 

Arya scoots down a sloping eave, gripping the gutter as she drops to the ground a few feet below. Jeyne follows her, finding it much easier to get down from the roofs than to get up on them. Hand in hand again, the two girls make their way down the street and onto the docks.

The ironborn are carousing on their ships again, and most of them pay no mind as Jeyne and Arya walk up the gangplank and slip belowdecks. Jeyne closes and bars her door, sitting down to wash the black layer of grime from the soles of her feet. 

“Do you think anyone…?”

“No,” Arya says, sounding sure of herself. “You kept your hood up all the way to his room. If anyone was even looking, they’d see a girl in a cloak go upstairs and never come down. They’ll be looking for the cloak, not for the girl underneath.”

They’d stuffed the cloak in Ser Meryn’s things, along with his tunics and smallclothes, and the cloak itself Arya had stolen from the House of Black and White; even if anyone thought to look amongst Ser Meryn’s things, they’d never be able to trace the cloak back to a person.

It seems too good to be true. “But what if someone saw us leave his room?” Jeyne counters. “What if someone learns the truth? People who commit crimes always think they’re very clever about it, but the people who discover their crimes are always cleverer.”

Arya takes Jeyne’s face in her hands. “No one is going to discover the truth. And even if by some  _ mad _ chance they did, we’ll be gone in the morning. We’ll be  _ pirates. _ Theon and Asha will protect us if it comes down to it.”

She’s right; even if anyone did recognize Jeyne, and even if they found her before dawn, Theon wouldn’t let them hurt her. He’s always saying that, that no one will hurt her. 

_ But will he still mean it if he finds out I helped kill a man? _

When Jeyne has washed her feet and changed into her nightgown, she and Arya climb into her bed and put their arms around each other. It reminds Jeyne of another Stark.

Arya tells her stories all through the night, stories about Beric Dondarrion and the Brotherhood without Banners, about her adventures with the Hound, about the people here in Braavos. Despite her own nagging fear that they’ll be seized by Braavosi watchmen and hanged, Jeyne finds herself relaxing, and gradually falling asleep.

When she wakes, it’s to sunlight streaming through the window, and a familiar movement that tells her the ship is sailing. She climbs out of bed, stumbling to the window to see for herself.

Sure enough, the water is moving past them, the oars from the longships dipping into the water. 

_ We’re safe. _

She stumbles back to bed, where a still-sleeping Arya grunts but throws an arm over her anyway. Jeyne falls back asleep, a smile on her face. 


	13. Chapter 13

Of all the Stark children, Theon never thought he’d become so close to Arya. 

Robb had been his truest friend, and he’d gotten along well enough with Jon and Bran and Rickon. He’d even go so far as to say he and Sansa got along to some degree, because as unalike as two people were, they were both mindful of their courtesies. 

But Arya?

Arya Underfoot did not hide it when she did not like someone, and though she didn’t outright dislike Theon, she was not fond of him and took no pains to hide it. Theon, who had no interest in ratty-haired little girls and had been planning to marry Sansa anyway, had paid her little to no mind beyond the necessary. 

In the months that follow Braavos, Theon finds himself thinking of Arya as the younger sibling he never had. Most of the time, it’s a good thing. She’s old enough now to appreciate his sense of humor, and they can talk with an ease they were never afforded before. She’s also a decent sparring partner, and shows a (fitting) interest in the goldenheart bow he brought from the Summer Islands. She even convinces him to let her try it, though it’s a foot taller than she is.

But sometimes she is truly a sibling in the sense that she annoys the hell out of him. She likes to invite herself into his cabin, whether or not he’s there, and “borrow” his things. She likes to tell embarrassing stories about him from his time at Winterfell, about which he becomes increasingly less forgiving, and if she catches him flirting with women when they make port, she likes to interrupt their conversation and ruin any chance he had of charming the woman in question.

Worst of all, though, is that she and Asha are joined at the hip. Arya dresses and talks and acts just like Asha, and has even started cutting her hair short and wearing a dirk just like Asha’s. Asha is no less pleased by the attention, and often keeps Arya by her side, calling her her miniature. It was funny at first, but sometimes Theon can’t talk to his sister without “her miniature” butting in.

At least Arya seems to make Jeyne happy, something that has truly amazed him. As little time as he’d spent with Arya at Winterfell, he knows she and Jeyne never got along, yet now they are as close as Jeyne and Sansa used to be. They shared the same bed for a while, and though Arya had convinced him to hang a hammock in the cabin so that she can sleep “like a real sailor,” they still sleep in the same cabin, and as far as he knows, they seem to like the arrangement. And when Arya’s not tripping after Asha or the men, trying to learn everything she can about being a pirate, she and Jeyne will sit in a corner or stand off to the side, whispering as if they have secrets to share.

If Jeyne was starting to come out of her shell before, she’s positively thriving now. Sometimes he’ll see her gasp or flinch, but for the most part, she seems sure of herself, unafraid of the men around her. She sings bawdy songs with them and laughs at bawdier jokes, and once he hears her call Rook a camel’s cunt, which makes Theon laugh harder than it ought to. 

Part of that boldness, he thinks, comes from her knowing how to fight, something he, Asha, and Arya teach her whenever they get a chance. She never wants to practice in front of the men, for which he can’t blame her, so they wait until they’re on the islands of the Stepstones, where it’s easy enough to find a secluded beach or patch of sand. Together, he, Asha, and Arya teach Jeyne to use any of the weapons they have on hand, but more importantly, they teach her how to fight without weapons. 

Arya, who’s of a similar build to Jeyne, is the best teacher for this. Small and quick, she shows Jeyne how to use her opponent’s strength against them, rendering them immobile just long enough to get away, or grab a weapon and make the killing blow. Jeyne is a quick study, and always eager to practice; the first time she flips Theon over her shoulder, sending him on the flat of his back in the sand, she knocks the very breath out of him. The wide smile on her face, though, is enough to make him agree to let her try it three more times. 

“She’s not that frightened little girl we found all those months ago,” Asha observes to him while they watch Jeyne and Arya spar. “She’s a woman now, with the heart of a warrior.”

“That she is,” Theon has to agree. Her sixteenth nameday had passed some time ago, but he thinks the change began even before that. Something happened in Braavos, though he doesn’t for the life of him know what it was. Something had transformed that scared young girl who clung to his arm into the young woman he sees before him now. 

Asha clears her throat. “Other people have noticed, too, you know. Other  _ men. _ ”

Theon mislikes the way she says that. “What do you mean?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Jeyne has a suitor.”

Theon stares at her in disbelief. “Who? And how do you know?”

“I know because he asked my permission to court her.” Asha gives him a wry smile. “It’s Tris Botley.”

Tris. Of course. Of all the men to want to court Jeyne, it would be Tris. Tris, who wanted to marry Asha and father sons upon her, always seeing what he wants to see and hearing what he wants to hear and never what’s really there.

Ass.

“But she’s a child,” Theon protests.

Asha laughs. “You just said she was a woman.”

“A woman in the sense that she can defend herself.”

“And is therefore old enough to be courted, if that’s her wish.” Asha shrugs. “I told him to ask her. I’m not her keeper.”

Arya does something to make Jeyne shout, and the older girl chases the younger into the grove, their shouts echoing after them. Theon turns to fully face his sister. “You should’ve said no.”

“Like I said, I’m not her keeper. It’s her decision.”

“But after everything--”

“Theon,” Asha says calmly, “have you ever considered that maybe Jeyne  _ wants _ to be courted?”

And, well, he hasn’t, because after everything she’s been through, how could she possibly want that? Why would she want a man that close to her, especially an ironborn? He says as much to Asha, who shrugs.

“Tris isn’t like the other ironborn, though. He’s a good fighter and a good sailor, don’t get me wrong, but he’s more...courtly. Not as rough as the other men. And he’s still a virgin, I think.”

He definitely is, which Theon had found amusing up until now. He wouldn’t have any expectations of Jeyne. He’d court her like a true Westerosi lord. The old Jeyne would have loved that, the girl who’d fallen in love with a new knight or lordling every hour. He wonders how much of that Jeyne remains.

“But how can he take care of her?” Theon wants to know. “He doesn’t even know about...Baelish.”

None of the men do. Theon thinks it’s probably obvious that Jeyne was mistreated before she joined the ironborn, but he, Asha, and Arya are the only people who know about the brothel. Would Tris still want to court Jeyne if he knew the truth? Does it even matter?

“He hasn’t even asked her yet,” Asha says, rolling her eyes. “She might say no. Why is it bothering you so much, anyway?”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s a woman grown, as I keep reminding you, and more than capable of deciding if she wants to let a man court her. She was raped and abused, and that will never leave her, but that doesn’t mean she has to be a septa for the rest of her life. And it’s not as if Tris is planning on fucking her right away.”

Theon’s stomach lurches at the thought. “Stop it.”

Asha folds her arms over her chest. “Are you upset because you still think of her as a child, or because you’re jealous?”

Theon gapes at his sister. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Are you jealous?” she repeats, watching him. “Is that why you’re huffing and puffing about another man?”

“She’s a  _ child, _ I’m not  _ jealous. _ ”

“You were saying she was a woman up until I mentioned Tris,” Asha points out. “Now suddenly she’s a child again.”

“I said she was a woman in that she can defend herself.”

“But not let a man write her poetry and sing her songs and steal a kiss from time to time?”

Theon frowns. 

“You are jealous!” Asha crows, looking delighted. “You want to be the one stealing kisses, don’t you?”

“I do  _ not. _ ”

“You do! But you didn’t realize it until now.”

Asha’s insistence is starting to make him angry. “I’m not jealous, I don’t want any kisses from her, she’s my friend and I just want what’s best for her, and I don’t think that includes Tris Botley.”

“If you say so,” Asha says with an annoying grin. 

Theon would very much like to shove his sister, and he thinks she knows it, too; so instead of pushing her, he balls his hands into fists and stomps off into the grove, her laughter at his back. He threads his way through the trees towards the sound of Jeyne and Arya’s voices.

He finds them in the water; there’s no beach on this side of the island, just a short drop from land, tree roots winding down and into the water. The two girls are hanging onto the roots and chatting when Theon comes towards them.

“Can I join you?”

“Yes,” Jeyne says. “It’s a bit cold, but you get used to it after a moment.”

Theon takes off his shoes and belt and shirt, sitting on the edge and sticking his feet in the water. It is cold, but not unpleasantly so. “Is it deep?”

“Not at all,” Arya says with a strange look on her face. “Look, it only comes up to here on me.” She stands up, and he sees that the water does only come up to her elbows. 

Theon scoots over the edge, ready for his feet to meet the bottom--but when he jumps, it doesn’t stop at his waist, it just keeps going. He sees now that the bottom is still ten or so feet below him; when he looks up, he sees that Arya was standing on a thick root below the water, which gave her the illusion of standing on the sea floor. He swims to the surface, glaring when both girls burst into giggles.

“Very funny,” he says, and they only giggle harder. He grabs Arya about the waist, pulling her under. She pushes him off, though he’s admittedly not trying very hard; when they break the surface, she splashes him, still laughing.

They swim in the shallows for a long time, the three of them. The water cools Theon’s earlier anger, and the gentle pull of water relaxes him. He likes it best when he’s floating on the surface, eyes open but ears under the water. Everything is soft and muffled under the water, and for a time, it’s like he’s in a different world.

The peace of the moment is shattered when two pairs of arms wrap around his legs and drag him under; he kicks out lightly, watching as Jeyne and Arya let go. Arya kicks her way to the floor, Jeyne following behind her. 

She really is a woman now, for all he’d insisted she was a child. Her shift is thin and white, and though he tries not to look, he can see the woman’s body beneath it anyway. With her dark hair fanning out around her, making her look like a mermaid, he cannot deny that she is beautiful, and that Tris won’t be the first man to fall under her spell.

The three of them find oysters on the ocean floor and pull themselves back on land to cut them open. The once-temperate air feels chilly now that they’re out of the water, and the slippery slide of the oysters down his throat send a shiver down Theon’s spine. He reaches for another oyster, and when his knife breaks the seal, he finds something small and shimmering inside.

It’s a pearl, he realizes, though he’s never seen a grey one before. White pearls, yes, and even the occasional black, but never grey. 

He turns to Jeyne, holding out his hand. “Here. It’s not from Yi Ti, but…” He sets the pearl in her open palm, watching as her face lights up.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, looking up at him and beaming. He feels a flutter in his belly that has nothing to do with the oysters.

_ Oh, _ he thinks.

_ Oh no. _


	14. Chapter 14

In the wake of his recent revelation, Theon has no idea what to do with himself. That he has feelings for Jeyne, there’s no denying, but what he wants to happen, he has no idea. 

He’d meant what he said to Asha; he doesn’t see how Jeyne could want to be around any man, even him, and he doubts very much that Jeyne sees him in that way besides. If anything, telling her how he feels might upset her, and he couldn’t blame her for that; how can she trust him if she knows he feels...well, whatever way it is he’s feeling?

And that’s the other part of it: he doesn’t know what it is he feels. He doesn’t think it’s love, but how would he know? He’s never been in love, not really. He has loved people, and he has loved them deeply, but to be  _ in _ love?

But what is it, if not love? Not lust, though his dreams tell him his feelings aren’t wholly innocent, either. No, his feelings are more than carnal, more than just an itch that needs to be scratched. 

And he does try to scratch it, whenever they make port and there’s a brothel to be found. Maybe, he thinks madly, he’s just backed up. 

But after several dark-haired whores with brown eyes, he realizes that no amount of women will make the feelings go away. He thinks about Jeyne constantly, his skin feels hot every time she touches him, and he wants nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her.

But he can’t. He just  _ can’t. _ Jeyne can defend herself now, but she’s still afraid of men, and if she knows Theon thinks of kissing and touching her, she’ll be afraid of him, too, and that would hurt worse than not having her at all.

So he doesn’t have her at all. He watches her from the shadows and pretends that everything is normal when she talks to him and keeps his thoughts to himself. 

Asha, however, does not have the same compunctions as her brother.

“You should tell her,” she says at every opportunity, no matter how many times Theon says he isn’t going to say anything. It sours their every meeting, so he starts to avoid his sister entirely, knowing she’s going to say the same thing. 

And then comes the horrible day when he realizes he should have listened to her.

.

It’s so late that it’s early when the knock comes at his cabin door. Some of the men are still carousing on deck, but it’s winding down from the sound of things. Theon, who was dozing in his chair, still fully clothed, shakes himself awake and moves to answer the door.

It’s Jeyne, looking flushed and shy. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really. What is it?”

She hesitates. “Can I come in? I want to...talk to you about something.”

That doesn’t bode well, but Theon steps aside to let her in all the same. She takes one of the chairs at his small table, politely declining his offer of wine.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sitting across from her.

She hesitates again, eyes cast down to her lap. “I wanted to know...what you thought about Tristifer Botley.”

He freezes. So, Tris must have finally asked if he could court her. But how does Jeyne feel?

“In what sense?”

She clears her throat. “Do you think...he’s a good man?” She finally lifts her eyes to meet his. “He always seemed to be to me, but I know that...men talk, and...I didn’t know if there was something I  _ should _ know.”

It would be so easy for Theon to lie to her. To tell her, “He’s a bad person, he’ll make you miserable, don’t be with him,” but what would that do? He’d only feel ashamed for lying, and maybe he’d ruin her happiness. Maybe she wants to be with Tris. 

“I don’t know of any secrets he has,” he finds himself admitting. “He’s...what he seems, I think. He was in love with Asha, but that was a long time ago.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Ah.” And then, because he can’t help himself, “Why do you ask?”

She flushes again. “He asked if he could court me.”

Theon’s throat feels suddenly dry. “And...how do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses. “I’ve never thought about him that way, but…”

His heart sinks. 

“He seems gentle and kind,” she continues, “and I think he would be good to me.”

Theon swallows. “I think so too.” 

She beams. “That’s good to hear.”

If he was going to say something, now would be the time. Now would be the moment to say, “He’d be good to you, but I’d be better,” or, “You don’t have to say anything, but I just want you to know that I care for you.”

But he doesn’t say either of those things. Instead, he says, “I hope he makes you happy.”

Jeyne reaches across the table to take his hand. “Thank you, Theon.”

He looks down and sees a ring on her finger--a white gold band and a familiar grey pearl. “Is that the pearl I found?”

Her smile widens. “Yes. I had it set so I could wear it always. It looks pretty, don’t you think?”

“Very pretty,” he agrees, unable to look at her.

Jeyne stands up. “I should go to bed. Thank you again, Theon.”

He doesn’t have it in him to see her out. 

.

Tris starts courting Jeyne, and Theon doesn’t think he can stomach it. 

It’s all very tame; Tris keeps to the  _ Silverfin _ and Jeyne keeps to the  _ Esgred, _ but at night he hops over to the  _ Esgred _ to call on her. They only sit together and talk, and Tris reserves his kisses for her hand or cheek, but it turns Theon’s stomach all the same.

Asha hasn’t failed to notice. She doesn’t say anything, which is a relief, because he doesn’t think he could handle an I-told-you-so right now, but she does sit with him and drink in companionable silence. 

The worst part of it all is Arya, who can’t stand Tris and makes it known to both Greyjoy siblings whenever the opportunity presents itself.

“Jeyne won’t shut up about him,” she huffs. “It’s always ‘Tristifer this and Tristifer that’. He wrote her a poem. A  _ poem. _ ”

“Was it good?” Asha asks, unable to help herself.

“No! It was bad, and boring, and it could’ve been about anyone, but Jeyne loves it.”

“She’s young,” Asha says, watching Theon. “She’ll grow out of it.”

“I wish she’d grow out of  _ Tristifer. _ If she  _ had _ to take up with a man, why did it have to be  _ him? _ ” She waves a dismissive hand. “I know, I know, he’s  _ kind _ and  _ gentle _ and the heir to Lordsport, but he’s  _ boring _ and all he ever talks about is putting Jeyne up in a manse somewhere and giving her dozens of babies.”

Even Asha can’t hide her contempt at that. “Tris and his babies. He ought to learn to give birth himself so he can stop looking for women to do it for him.”

Theon clears his throat. “You don’t think Jeyne... _ wants _ that, do you?”

Asha and Arya exchange knowing looks.

“What?”

“Theon,” Arya begins, “why don’t you just  _ tell _ Jeyne you’re in love with her?”

He gapes at the girl. “What are you…?”

“Please, I’m not an idiot,” Arya scoffs. “I was there when you gave her that pearl, remember? Though maybe I shouldn’t have been, because then you would’ve had the balls to say something to her.”

“Remember, we’re not going to give Theon any grief,” Asha says, and he realizes that his sister and Arya have discussed this behind his back. “He’s beating himself up enough.”

Arya looks as if she’s trying very hard not to say something. 

Theon pushes himself to his feet, staggering to the door of his sister’s cabin. “I’m leaving. Talk about me all you want.”

“Theon!” Asha calls, but he’s already out the door.

It makes his blood boil, to know that not only do Asha and Arya thinks he’s stupid, but to know that they’ve been talking about him when he isn’t there. He knows they’re close, but this feels like a betrayal somehow. 

Maybe in the morning he’ll ask Asha if he can command the  _ Black Wind, _ or at least stay on it. He doesn’t want to be around her, or Arya, or Jeyne right now. The longship isn’t as comfortable as the galley, certainly, but it’ll be a sight more pleasant than spending every day seeing a woman he can’t have, and worse, knowing his sister and his friend pity him. 

He bars his cabin door behind him, flopping face-first onto his bed. He both wants to hit something and wants to sleep for days. 

Neither one happens, though, because not half an hour later, there’s a pounding at his door.

“What?” he snaps, and then remembers the door is barred. Grunting, he lifts the bar and opens it.

It’s Asha, her face solemn. “The far-eyes saw ships. Longships.”

Theon is fully awake now. “Ironborn?”

“Has to be; no one else uses longships.”

Theon swallows. He knows what ironborn longships mean. 

_ Euron. _

Feeling as though he’s walking to the executioner’s block, he follows his sister above deck. Many of the men are already there, having been in the middle of their nightly reveries, but a dead quiet has fallen over the crowd. Theon and Asha thread their way to starboard, closest to the lantern lights they see in the distance.

There are indeed longships coming towards them, but only three. So, not the Iron Fleet, and Asha’s fleet would most likely win in a fight, but three ships sounds like an emissary, and not an invitation for a fight. 

The sail of the lead ship is black with a strip of silver that Theon cannot make out, but the two ships behind that one have kraken sails. Euron has sent someone, but why? Can’t he let them be content with pirating along the Narrow Sea?

Asha gasps. “That sail--it’s a scythe! That’s the  _ Sea Song _ !”

Theon peers, and sees that it is a scythe, the sigil of House Harlaw. The  _ Sea Song _ is their uncle Rodrik’s ship, but what is he doing with two Greyjoy ships?

When the longships are in shouting distance, Asha calls, “Is that you, nuncle?”

Over the water comes the voice of Rodrik Harlaw. “It is, and I bring with me three things: an old friend, your brother’s ship, and tidings.”

Theon sees now that the two ships accompany the  _ Sea Song _ are Dagmer Cleftjaw’s  _ Foamdrinker _ and the  _ Sea Bitch, _ which Theon had not thought to see again. They’re not Euron’s ships at all.

The  _ Sea Song’s _ crew lowers a boat, and Rodrik and a white bearded man Theon would know anywhere row towards them. Asha embraces her uncle, but Theon hesitates before Dagmer Cleftjaw.

“Cleftjaw…”

To his relief, the older man reaches out and embraces Theon. “Thought you could get rid of me easy as that?” he booms, lifting Theon off his feet. 

“Never.”

Dagmer laughs, setting Theon down and patting his shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, lad. We heard stories…”

Theon decides that now is not the time to ask Dagmer what sort of stories he heard. “It’s good to see you too. But what are you doing here?”

“Yes, what  _ are _ you doing here?” Asha asks the two men.

It’s Rodrik who speaks. “Euron’s reign is not going as well as he thought. His way is not the Old Way. The men, women, and children captured during his raids are sold to Lysene and Volantene slavers, and he takes lands and gives them away as quickly as his moods change. The Shields have changed hands a hundred times, or so it seems. And now he wants his men to sail across the world to woo Daenerys Targarayen, but they will not go, content with the Arbor and the Mander, so he sends your uncle Victarion in his stead.”

Theon and Asha trade looks. They both know what that means. If Victarion fails, it will be all on him. If he succeeds, Euron will have Daenerys Targaryen, and possibly the Iron Throne.

“That still does not answer my question, nuncle,” Asha says, turning back to Rodrik. “Why are you here?”

“Euron’s moment in the sun is coming to an end,” Rodrik tells her. “You, my niece and nephew, have one thing in common with Victarion: you all three want Euron out of the way. If you stand together with Daenerys Targaryen against Euron, you can get him off the Seastone Chair.”

“And put Victarion on it instead?” Asha asks sharply.

Rodrik shakes his head. “Victarion will marry Daenerys Targaryen. He will be at her side while she sits the Iron Throne. Why should he care for the Iron Islands when he’ll have seven kingdoms before him?”

Theon and Asha share another look, but this time, they’re smiling. Of course. Victarion will have no need of the Seastone Chair if he has the Iron Throne. And Daenerys Targaryen can’t very well refuse him if he brings her a fleet to ferry her Unsullied across the world and offers his own men to her cause. 

“This is your chance, Asha,” Rodrik continues. “Take it, or you may never have another one.”

But Asha keeps looking at Theon, a silent question in her eyes.

“He’s right,” Theon tells her. “Now’s the time. If we leave now, we can join Victarion’s fleet. Pledge ourselves to his cause, and when the war is won, it’ll be you sitting on the Seastone Chair, not Euron, not Victarion...you.”

Asha nods. “Then I will do it.” Louder, so her men can hear, she says, “I will help Victarion take the Iron Throne that I may take the Seastone Chair.”

The men cheer, their shouts echoing off the water.

_ “ASHA! QUEEN ASHA! ASHA! ASHA QUEEN!” _

Asha looks at Theon and beams.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Theon greatly fucks up.

Asha’s fleet sails out of the Stepstones and heads south to meet Victarion’s fleet. He’d broken up the fleet, giving the order to meet at the Isle of Cedars in the Gulf of Grief, and if they make good enough time, they should be able to meet him while the fleet is still assembling

Theon takes command of the  _ Sea Bitch _ again, both because it is his ship and because he wants to get away from the women on the  _ Esgred _ . Not that it truly matters; Asha has gone back to the  _ Black Wind, _ leaving Arya and Jeyne on the merchanter. The  _ Esgred _ was all well and good while they were pirating in the Narrow Sea, but to win Victarion’s respect and prove herself a worthy ally, Asha will need to be on an ironborn longship. 

They still maintain their nightly tradition of hopping from one ship to the next, but Theon finds himself seeking out Dagmer’s company on the  _ Foamdrinker _ more and more. He’s missed the old man, it’s true, but more importantly, he wants to know what stories the Cleftjaw heard in the North.

“We heard there was a battle at Winterfell,” the master-at-arms tells him when it’s just the two of them in his cabin. “The Boltons killed the ironborn, and then they turned on the Stark men. They took the castle’s household to the Dreadfort and kept them as prisoners.”

Theon’s heart sinks. The Boltons would have known if they’d come across Bran and Rickon. They either killed the boys and hid the bodies or brought them to the Dreadfort as their prisoners. Or maybe, there’s just the smallest, slightest chance that they never found them. That Bran and Rickon remained in the crypts throughout the siege, and didn’t come out until after it was over. They’d be alone and afraid, yes, but they’d have Maester Luwin and Hodor and Osha and the Reeds. And the wolves. They’d be alright if they had the wolves. Maybe they found shelter with Stark bannermen, or they’re wandering the North disguised as travelers.

But that’s a foolish fancy. Bran and Rickon are either dead or captured, Robb is dead, Sansa is missing, Jon Snow is a man of the Night’s Watch, and Arya is sailing with ironborn to bring a Targaryen back to Westeros. House Stark is dead, or as good as.

“And you,” Dagmer continues, “ran away.”

Theon starts. “I--”

“Don’t try to deny it,” the Cleftjaw says dryly. “I know you better than most. You fled Winterfell before the attack. There were no survivors from that battle, and if there were going to be any, it wouldn’t have been you. Don’t take offense, lad; I told you from the first, the greybeards you see didn’t get that way from being hardheaded heroes thirsty for glory.”

Theon lowers his eyes. “It’s my greatest shame, second only to taking Winterfell. I should never have tried to do it.”

“Maybe not,” the older man says, “but you know something? You’re twice the man now than you were when I last saw you. When we parted in the North, you were still a green boy eager for glory. Now you are a man who knows his duty and seeks only to glorify those that deserve it. Not many men would have had the stomach to name their sister their ruler, but you did. You shouted her name at the kingsmoot and you went into exile with her, and now you mean to help her take her birthright, though many would say it is your birthright.”

“Asha will make a better queen than I could ever make a king,” Theon points out. “I was never meant to rule anyone, let alone the ironborn. My place is at Asha’s side. I’m not worth much, but I will do what I can to serve her.”

“Aye, you’re twice the man you used to be,” Dagmer says with a smile. “I’m proud of you, Theon, I truly am.”

Theon ducks his head. “Even though I fled Winterfell like a coward?”

“Every man should suffer some losses in his youth. It humbles him. I’m proud of you, and I won’t tell anyone your secret.”

Theon’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you, Cleftjaw.”

The old man claps him on the shoulder. “These bones are tired, boy; I must needs rest, so I can be ready for a reaving.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Theon is still wide awake, though, and feeling much warmer towards his sister than he had been earlier, he decides to seek her out. 

With nine ships between them now, it’s even harder to find someone than it used to be; he tries the  _ Black Wind, _ the  _ Sea Song, _ and the  _ Esgred, _ but his sister is on none of those. He makes next for the  _ Salty Wench, _ and has no sooner landed on the longship than Tris Botley approaches him, an earnest look on his face. 

Tris Botley is the  _ last _ person Theon wants to talk to right now, but there’s no escaping the other man. He comes towards Theon, a cup of ale in hand. 

“Theon! I was hoping for a word.”

“That was seven,” Theon points out. 

“When Asha becomes queen, she’s promised to restore Lordsport to me,” Tris says. “When that happens, I’m going to marry Jeyne.”

Theon’s good mood is rapidly souring. “She’s agreed to marry you?”

“Well, not yet,” Tris allows. “But I’ve been courting her, and...well, the Lord of Lordsport is nothing to sneeze at. Especially for a girl like her.”

Theon bristles at that. “A girl like her? What do you mean?”

“A steward’s daughter, and one that’s lost her maidenhead.” When he sees the look on Theon’s face, Tris hastens to add, “Not that I blame her for it, of course, but you have to admit that few men of my station would marry such a bride.”

“I suppose,” Theon says coldly. He wants to punch Tris in his stupid face.  _ You don’t deserve Jeyne. _

“But in light of that,” Tris continues, “I wondered if you would give her away when the time comes, seeing as her father is dead.”

It’s too much for Theon. It’s not enough for Tris to talk about how lucky Jeyne would be to marry him, but for him to ask Theon to give her to him?

It’s too much, yet looking back, it still wasn’t enough for Theon to say what he says next.

“You still want to marry her, even after...you know?”

Tris blinks at him. “I know she was forced.”

“But,” Theon says, ignoring the voice in his head screaming at him to stop, “do you know how many times?”

Tris opens and closes his mouth. “Do you?”

“Hundreds, I’d imagine. She was put in a brothel.” Theon tilts his head. “Didn’t she tell you that? That she was made to be a whore?”

Tris keeps opening and closing his mouth, looking like a stupid fish. 

_ Take it back,  _ begs a voice in Theon’s head,  _ take it back and say it was a bad jape, he’ll never know. _

But he doesn’t, for some strange reason. He lets it hang there until Tris cannot doubt the sincerity of his words.

“She did not tell me,” Tris finally says. “I suppose...she wouldn’t want to say anything...but this...this bears thinking on.”

It’s not too late for Theon to laugh and call it a bad jape...but if he does, Tris will stay with Jeyne and nothing will change. If he stays quiet, though, maybe Tris will end things with her.

“Thank you, Theon,” Tris says sincerely. “I know you’re a true friend.” And with that, he walks away.

Theon feels sick.  _ What have I done? _

He doesn’t think he can bear to see his sister anymore. He doesn’t think he can bear to see anyone. Disgusted with himself, he makes his way back to the  _ Sea Bitch, _ where he shuts himself away in his cabin and tries to calm himself. 

Tris will either end things with Jeyne, or he’ll confront her and it will sour things between them. That could go well for Theon...unless Tris tells her where he heard about her past, in which case she’d be angry at Theon, and rightfully so. 

_ For all my talk of Tris not being able to take care of her, I’m the one telling her secrets. _

He hates himself so much in that moment. His earlier buoyancy is gone, and he wants to sink into the ocean.

_ Maybe it will be alright. _

But how could it?

.

Nearly a week passes, and Theon does not hear one way or the other about what’s going on between Tris and Jeyne. In fairness, he’s doing his best to avoid both of them, but he assumes that if his name was brought up, he would find out about it. 

In that time, they pass south of Lys and begin making the slant towards the Summer Sea. They give Old Valyria a wide berth, veering south so that they can restock supplies in Naath. Theon has not forgotten about the poisoned butterflies of lore, but it’s not as if they have much choice; the only other ports this far south are the Summer Islands, which they cannot go to because of the exiles in their fleet. 

Naath is a peaceful island, and thankfully devoid of butterflies as far as Theon can see. The Naathi do not speak the Common Tongue, but some of the traders do speak enough of the Summer Tongue to get along with the Summer Islanders. Theon, overseeing the loading of the  _ Sea Bitch _ , is surprised to find Jeyne aboard his longship.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she accuses.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, other than, “I’m sorry.”

She shifts from one foot to the other. “Tris is avoiding me.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, either. “Did he...say why?”

“He said he’s got a lot on his mind, but I know there’s something.” She looks embarrassed. “I know I must’ve...said or done something.”

Theon feels a pang of guilt. “I’m sure you didn’t. Maybe he does just have a lot on his mind. Inheriting Lordsport is no small matter.”

“Maybe.” She watches the men loading barrels onto the ship. “Maybe he’s tired of me.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”

She gives him a small smile. “Arya thinks he’s an idiot. She won’t say it, but I know she does.”

Theon decides not to confirm that. Instead, he asks the question he’s been afraid to ask until now. “Do you love him?”

Jeyne looks surprised. “Er...no. I  _ like _ him, but...I don’t think I know him well enough to love him.”

That relieves Theon. “Oh. Well. Alright. I just wondered.”

Jeyne gives him a small smile. “Don’t go so long without saying hello again. I’ve missed you.”

“I won’t,” Theon promises, unsure of how to acknowledge the second half of her statement. “I’ll come say hello tonight.”

Her smile widens.

.

Theon does stop avoiding Jeyne, and he tries not to notice how happy that seems to make her. He drinks and talks with her and Asha and Arya again, and it feels like old times, before Tris swooped in and changed everything.

They sail their way into the Summer Sea. Once or twice they encounter red winds from Old Valyria that smell of ash and brimstone; the men cover their faces as best they can and row hard to get out of their path. 

They’re to meet up with Victarion and the rest of the Iron Fleet at the Isle of Cedars in the Gulf of Grief; from there, they’ll sail into Slaver’s Bay and land in Meereen. Nine and ninety ships set out from the Iron Islands in smaller squadrons, knowing it would be easier to travel separately and converge closer to Meereen. Rodrik, however, does not think that all ninety-nine ships from the Iron Fleet will make it to the Isle of Cedars.

“There’s a reason so few ironborn have sailed this far east,” he tells his niece and nephew. “The way is long, and not without its perils. There are more open waters this way than back at home, and fewer ports in a storm. If a ship encounters trouble out here, he cannot hope to find the nearest port or island because the nearest one may be weeks away. Victarion will lose some ships to the elements, and others to hostile lands. The people of the Basilisk Isles have short and miserable lives, and guests there have even shorter and more miserable visits--if they leave at all. And this is assuming a gale does not send the men a hair south, to Sothoryos, or a jump north, to the smoking ruins of Old Valyria. No, The greater part of the Iron Fleet will make it to the Isle of Cedars, but I would be surprised if there were not some losses along the way.”

“What does that mean for us?” Asha asks.

“It means with nine ships intact, Victarion will not be able to afford turning away your help, if that was ever on his mind to begin with. The men will be impressed; you left Old Wyk with four ships, and now have nine.”

“Three of those were brought by you and Dagmer Cleftjaw,” she points out.

“Nonetheless, that’s three more ships that you didn’t have before.” Rodrik leans forward. “Make your obeisance to Victarion first. He is a proud man, and that pride is easily wounded. Tell him the truth behind your leaving; you feared Euron wanted you and your brother dead and fled to the Stepstones to await the right time. Tell him that he may take Daenerys Targaryen for his own wife, and make a fool of the brother who has always made a fool of him. He will like that.”

“He will,” Asha allows. “He will like my asking to be queen less.”

“He is a proud man, and the years have made him slower than most, but he is not a complete fool. He will know that you desire the Seastone Chair. I should think he would be suspicious if you did not want it. There is no harm in telling him what you want. And he does not need to give an answer right away. Once he has the dragon queen and her Unsullied on his ships, he may think bigger than the Iron Islands. By the time he’s helped the Targaryen woman take back the Seven Kingdoms, he will likely grant you the Iron Islands.”

“I hope you’re right, nuncle,” Asha says sincerely. “Because I don’t know what I’ll do if another Greyjoy uncle wants me dead.”

“Victarion is many things, but a kinslayer is not one of them. He may chafe at your birthright, and he may resent you for having the better claim, but he will not kill you.”

Theon hopes that is true. He doesn’t know his uncle as well as Asha does, but Victarion seems an honorable man. If he did not kill Euron after he seduced and impregnated his own wife, why should he kill his niece and nephew for being ahead of him in the line of succession?

_ A line that means little and less now that Euron was named king at the kingsmoot.  _

Some part of Theon does worry at this plan. Even if it goes well and Victarion names Asha Queen of the Iron Islands, will the ironborn accept her reign? They chose Euron, and he must still be killed if Victarion is to pass the Seastone Chair to Asha. He will also not take his brother’s betrayal well, and even if he has less ships than Victarion, he is still a dangerous man. What if he kills Victarion? Worse still, what if he kills Asha? What if nothing goes the way it’s supposed to?

But what other choice do they have? If they don’t act now, Victarion and the Iron Fleet will just keep answering to Euron, and worse still, Daenerys Targaryen might marry Euron. If Theon and Asha were lucky, they might still be allowed to live as pirates in the Stepstones...and if they are unlucky…

Well, that doesn’t bear thinking about. 

It isn’t just him and Asha he’s worried about now too, though. It’s Jeyne and Arya, who have found a home with Asha’s fleet. If they succeed, they can take back Winterfell, and Arya and Jeyne can have their home restored to them. Maybe Sansa will even come out of hiding. But if something happens to Theon and Asha, then it will happen to Jeyne and Arya, too.

_ Everything will be alright, _ he tries to tell himself.  _ One way or another. _

.

They’re west of New Ghis when Jeyne finds Theon aboard the  _ Sea Bitch. _ The nightly revels have barely begun, Theon still sipping his sweetened rum from Naath, when Jeyne approaches him, visibly holding back tears. 

“What is it?” he asks at once.

“Can we go somewhere quiet?” she asks, eyes bright. 

“Of course.” He leads Jeyne down the stairs and into his cabin. No sooner has he closed the door than Jeyne is taking the cup of rum from his hands; she drinks it all in one go, wiping her mouth when she finishes. 

“Do you have anything else?” 

“Jeyne, what’s going on?” he asks, perplexed.

“Tris said he can’t see me anymore.”

Theon tries to hide his elation. “I’ll get the wine.”

He and Jeyne sit at the small table in his cabin, where she alternates between crying and drinking. 

“What did he say?” Theon asks, curious. She hasn’t mentioned him yet, so he assumes Tris left him out of it.

She takes a deep breath. “He said he’s had time to think, and now that he’s going to be the Lord of Lordsport for true, his priorities have changed, which sounds like a load of horseshit to me.”

Well, at least Tris hadn’t said anything about the brothel. 

“There’s  _ got _ to be something else,” she sighs, resting her chin on her hand. “ _ Something _ had to have happened for him to have changed his mind. He was writing me  _ poetry. _ He wanted to have children with me.”

Theon pretends to be interested in his wine. “Is that what you wanted?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “For so long, life was just about...surviving from one day to the next. Even when you and Asha found me, I was so afraid all the time. I didn’t think about the future because I could barely focus on the present. I certainly didn’t ever think about marrying and settling down with children.”

“But when Tris talked about children...didn’t you think about it then?”

She hesitates. “Well...yes.”

“And?”

She shrugs, cheeks red. “Honestly, I...I never saw it happening. Having children with him. Even marrying him. Maybe it’s because of...everything, but...I don’t know. I just couldn’t imagine a life like that. Living in a manse in some city, or being the Lady of Lordsport, with some husband I don’t even love.”

“Then why are you crying over him?” he can’t help asking. “If you didn’t love him, if you didn’t want a life with him?”

“I don’t know!” She wipes her eyes. “I mean, I still  _ liked _ him, and it was nice to feel...wanted. Not just for my body, either, but...because someone liked me for me.” She gives him a sad smile. “It made me feel normal.”

His heart breaks just a little at that. As much as he’d resented Tris, as glad as he is the other man ended things with Jeyne, he can’t help but feel a little guilty for it. Jeyne had been a sweet girl who’d loved songs about knights and their ladies and had wanted to marry a kind man who loved her. Baelish had kept her a prisoner in the worst way for two years, two years of her life she’ll never get back, and will scar her forever. She may not have loved Tris, and she may not have wanted to marry him, but at least he made her happy in some small way. At least he made her feel like she could be her old self again. 

“There will be others,” he tells her softly, reaching across the table to take her hand in his. She’s still wearing the pearl ring; he strokes the band with his thumb. 

“What others?” she scoffs. 

“Oh, you know,” he says nonchalantly, “my cousin Dagon.”

Jeyne smiles. “Dagon the Drunkard?”

“Very eligible,” Theon says with mock sincerity. “Or Fingers.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Ah, yes, Fingers, the handsomest of all the ironborn. What about Grimtongue?”

“Very jolly.”

She laughs for true this time. “Then again, perhaps Six-Toed Harl is more to my taste.”

“Oh, I’m afraid Hagen’s daughter has laid her claim on him.”

Jeyne laughs again. “Of course. Maybe Droopeye Dale, then.”

“I hear he has a pox in his pants.”

Jeyne tilts her head, still smiling. “There’s always you.”

Theon’s heart pounds against his chest. “Me?”

She nods. “You’d be good to me.”

He swallows, no longer sure if this is a game or not. “Jeyne…”

She gets up from her chair, coming around to his. His heart is still pounding as she sits on his lap and leans forward to kiss him.

Her kiss is sweeter than he imagined. She tastes of Lyseni wine and Naathi rum, and there’s a smell like lavender and rosemary about her. One of his hands comes up to cradle her head, her dark hair smooth and silky between his fingers. His other hand rests at her hip, holding her against him. He can feel her smiling against his lips, winding her arms around his neck. 

It feels so  _ right, _ kissing her like this. He wants it to go on for a thousand years, nothing in the world but the two of them. 

_ I do love her, _ he realizes.

One of her hands trails over his shoulder, down his chest and stomach, and rests lightly over the laces of his breeches. He groans, already feeling himself stiffening against her.

“Jeyne…”

“I want to,” she insists. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

_ But I already have. _

As tempting as it would be to let this happen, as easy as it would be, he can’t let it. He has to tell her the truth. She deserves that.

He gently grips her wrist, pulling her hand away. “I have to tell you something.”

She looks at him with dark eyes, her lips swollen from kissing. He wants to keep kissing her...but he knows he shouldn’t.

He looks down. “You were right when you said there was a reason Tris ended things with you. I told him about the brothel.”

Jeyne is still and quiet for a long moment. When she slides off his lap, he can feel the anger rolling off of her in waves. “Why did you tell him about that?”

He hates himself so much right now. He can’t even bear to look at her. “Because I was jealous. He was talking to me about marrying you and it just...came out.”

“It just came out?” she repeats coldly. “Just like that?”

He winces. “I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t your secret to tell.”

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway.”

He stares at his boots. “I did.”

“You told him the one thing about me you weren’t supposed to tell anybody. Because you were jealous.”

He doesn’t have an answer.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

“Because I didn’t...I didn’t think you saw me that way.”

“Theon,” she says forcefully, “I would have left Tris for you in a heartbeat. Half the reason I was with him was because I knew it made you jealous.”

He looks up at her, surprised. There are angry tears in her eyes.

“Turns out it worked  _ too _ well.” She wipes her eyes. “I feel like such a fool for believing you weren’t like other men.”

He wants to tell her that he isn’t like other men...but he is, isn’t he? She trusted him, and he hurt her just to get what he wanted. 

“Jeyne,” he says in a low voice, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure you are.” She heads for the door. “Please leave me alone from now on.” And with that, she leaves him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've neglected to mention it until now, but props as always must go to Emily judypoovey for talking me through a lot of this fic <3

It’s a miserable journey to the Isle of Cedars. Not only is Jeyne (rightfully) furious with Theon, but Asha and Arya have taken her side as well. He can’t blame any of them; it was wrong of him to tell Tris, and he deserves their chilly silences. It still hurts him.

Worse still, Tris has noticed the coldness the three women direct at Theon, and he tries to bond with Theon because of it. Theon spends his nights dodging the other man, not having the heart to tell Tris that the whole reason he slipped Jeyne’s secret was to cast a shadow over their relationship. 

_ I would have left Tris for you in a heartbeat. Half the reason I was with him was because I knew it made you jealous. _

Had he really been so blind? Those weeks where he tried to push away his feelings for Jeyne, was she trying to give him a hint? When she accepted Tris’s suit, had she been trying to spur Theon to action? She had the pearl he gave her set in a band and wore it all the time; was he really so thick as to think she just wanted a pretty piece of jewelry?

There’s not going to be any coming back from this. He may be able to mend things with Asha, but Jeyne will never forgive him, and Arya is as devoted to Jeyne as Jeyne is to her. As soon as it’s safe, the two of them will peel away from the Iron Fleet and never look back.

He finds himself in Dagmer Cleftjaw’s company more often than not, drinking heavily and trying to forget his mistakes. Dagmer must be able to sense something the matter with the younger man, but he does not remark on it; instead he just drinks, and tells stories from his past. Theon likes his stories, but he always dreads when they end. The Cleftjaw goes to bed earlier than most men, weary from a hundred fights and half as many years spent fighting them, leaving Theon alone with his thoughts in the blackest hours of night. 

It’s been ten days since that horrible night when they see land, and off its eastern coast, ships. Specifically, longships.

Theon counts nineteen as they get closer, all of them bearing the Greyjoy kraken. Beyond them is the isle, but he sees no cedars on it, and wonders if there was some mistake. 

The men on the ships look up at them curiously, but when they reach the  _ Iron Victory, _ they see Victarion eyeing them with arms folded across his chest.

“Niece. Nephew. Reader. Cleftjaw.”

“Nuncle!” Asha greets cheerfully. “Have you missed me?”

“Like a pox. What are you doing here?”

“Better if I tell you where we don’t have so many eavesdroppers.”

Victarion considers this. “Very well.”

Asha and Theon alight on the  _ Iron Victory, _ where their uncle jerks his head for them to follow him. They do, ignoring the stares of his crew.

As soon as he opens the cabin door, Theon wrinkles his nose. There’s a smell in the room like something rotting. It’s not a strong smell, but it’s a smell nonetheless. One look at Asha tells him she can smell the same thing.

There’s also a woman in the room, dark-skinned, dark-haired, and dark-eyed. When Victarion bids her leave, she does.

“A gift from my brother,” he says, lip curling. “Cut out her tongue before he gave her to me, and I don’t doubt he had her, too.”

“You’ve managed to spare this one,” Asha says dryly.

Victarion scowls. “What do you want?”

Asha invites herself to a seat at his table. “I hear you’re trying to woo Daenerys Targaryen for your beloved brother.”

Victarion’s mouth is set in a firm line. “The Reader told you this?”

“He did.”

“And why do you care?”

Asha pours herself a cup of ale. “You have always been a loyal brother. To my father, and now to Euron, though twice he has had your women, and has sent you to the other side of the world to fetch another woman for him.”

“My patience grows thin, niece.”

She takes a swig of ale, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “You and I both want Euron out of the way. Don’t we?”

Victarion hesitates.

“It’s alright, nuncle. I want Euron dead just as much as you do.” Asha takes another swig of ale. “If you woo Daenerys Targaryen on his behalf, he won’t just be the king of the Iron Islands, he’ll be married to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She leans forward. “But if you woo her for yourself…”

Victarion’s eyes widen. “You would have me marry her in his place?”

“I would. Don’t you think you’ve earned that, nuncle? After so many years of serving your father, then my father, and now Euron, don’t you think you’ve earned your place beside the Iron Throne?”

He stares at her. “You’re mad, niece.”

“So are you, if you do not take this fruit while it’s ripe for the plucking,” she retorts. “Euron seduced your wife and put his bastard in her belly, now he gives you his leavings, but not before he cuts out her tongue. He has shamed you, nuncle, and he will again. Do you think that will change after he’s married the dragon queen?”

Theon can see the doubt flicker in Victarion’s eyes. “What do you want out of this, niece?”

“I want the Seastone Chair,” she says frankly. “What will it matter once you’ve taken the Seven Kingdoms? You’ll have the Iron Throne. What’s a chair to a throne?”

She’s gotten to their uncle, and it shows. Victarion is visibly awed by the suggestion.

“Euron would be against me,” he says slowly. 

“You have the Iron Fleet,” Theon points out. “And once you marry Daenerys Targaryen, you’ll have her dragons, and the Unsullied, and all the armies in Westeros to help you overthrow him. If you still need help, that is; if he’s wise, he’ll pick up and run.”

“Or have me murdered the way he did your father,” Victarion says, but he’s considering it. 

“My nuncle Rodrik tells us that Euron has grown unpopular,” Asha presses. “And I imagine sending his brother to do his bidding for him has made him decidedly less popular.”

Victarion looks away. “Perhaps.”

“I can see you need time to think on this, nuncle, so I will not press the matter, but I hope you will think about it nonetheless,” Asha says. “You’re still waiting on the rest of the fleet, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he agrees. “Nine and ninety set out from the Stepstones, and most of my own made it to the isle, but we’re still waiting on Ralf the Limper’s ships and Red Ralf Stonehouse’s.”

“And now you have nine more,” Asha says pleasantly. 

“And what if I say no?” Victarion demands. 

“You won’t,” Asha says with a smile. “I know you too well, nuncle.”

Victarion waves his hand in irritation. “And you, Theon? You’re still content to serve your sister?”

“I am.”  _ Though she will not even look me in the eye these days. _

Victarion shakes his head. “If that is your wish.”

Theon bites back a retort about Victarion’s own priorities as a younger brother, for he feels that that would not be well-received.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you like,” the older man continues dully. “There are wild boars on the island; they have no fear of man and will kill you if you’re caught unawares, but they make good sport and better supper. There are monkeys, too, but they’re annoying little beasts; see that you don’t let any on your ships, I’ve forbidden it lest we hear their racket all the way to Meereen. There are ruins from before the Doom, but the men say they are cursed.”

“And cedars?” Theon asks wryly. 

Victarion scowls. “There are no cedars. Suppose they were all washed away by the Doom, too.”

“Then the island should have a new name. Kraken Isle, maybe.”

Victarion does not find this amusing. “Off with you both; your prattling pains the ears and makes my head ache.”

“Perhaps a crown will soothe that ache,” Asha suggests, getting up nonetheless. “Feel better, nuncle, and think on what I have said.” She leads the way out of the cabin, making the jump from the  _ Iron Victory _ to the  _ Black Wind. _

“He seemed convinced,” Theon notes, following his sister belowdecks. 

“He did,” she agrees. “Now we only have to convince the men.”

“You think they won’t go for it?”

“I think if what Rodrik says is true, they’ll be more inclined to follow Victarion if he takes Daenerys for his wife instead of delivering her to Euron,” she says, walking into her cabin. “What has Euron done, besides make promises he can’t keep and send others to do his dirty work for him?” She tears a hunk of bread from a half-eaten loaf, chewing thoughtfully. “He’ll need to be dealt with one way or another, though. If he doesn’t come for me on the Seastone Chair--and he will, I guarantee it--then he’ll come for Victarion in the Red Keep. He doesn’t need the Iron Fleet, he just needs cunning. That’s how he killed our father.”

She has a point. 

“What do you suggest?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. Too bad Arya never finished her training as a Faceless Man, eh?”

Theon arches an eyebrow. “You know, hiring the Faceless Men isn’t the  _ worst _ idea…”

Asha laughs. “It’s far from the best, though.” She shakes her head. “Maybe he and Victarion will do us a favor and kill each other.”

“Then who’d marry the dragon queen?”

“Me,” she japes. 

“Don’t do that; that would leave me King of the Iron Islands, and I think we’ve established what a terrible idea that would be.”

“Not  _ terrible. Ill-advised, _ maybe.” She hops up on her table, reaching for an apple. “I wonder what this dragon queen is like.”

“Beautiful, I’ve heard. She freed all the slaves in Slaver’s Bay, so she must have a kind heart. She commands the Unsullied, so she must be strong, too.”

“Beautiful, kind, and strong,” Asha muses. “I don’t think either one of our uncles deserves her, in truth, but like so many marriages, it will be less about what they deserve and instead what they can offer each other.” 

Theon hesitates. “What if she refuses our uncle?”

“Then we’re fucked,” Asha says bluntly. “Victarion may turn on Euron regardless, but even if he succeeded, he’d still sit the Seastone Chair and I’d have nothing. Or he may go back to the Iron Islands with his tail between his legs, and then we’d have to go back to pirating up and down the Narrow Sea.  _ Or _ he may turn pirate himself rather than face Euron again, as friend or foe, and we’d still go back to being pirates.”

“It’s not a bad life,” Theon says in a would-be cheerful voice. “Being a pirate.”

“It’s not a bad life,” she agrees. “But it wasn’t the life I was meant for.”

“The Seastone Chair will be yours,” Theon promises. “One way or another.”

Asha doesn’t say anything.

“What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing, just...I try to imagine what all this would have been like if Father had just  _ let _ Victarion kill Euron.”

“You think Victarion would have won?” Theon counters. “Even if he is a good fighter, Euron is a cunning man.”

“That’s true,” she allows. “But either way, we would have had only one uncle to contend with instead of two.” She shakes her head. “At least your children won’t have this problem.”

“My children?”

“Future children. I’m not going to have any,” she points out. “Your eldest will inherit the Seastone Chair when you and I are gone. No scheming uncles for them.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m going to have children.”

“Aye, well, now that you’ve mucked things up with Jeyne--” She must see the look on his face, because she hastens to add, “I was only joking, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a joke if it’s true.”

“The best jokes have a grain of truth to them. Alright, so you did muck things up. It’s not like there isn’t any coming back from it.”

He looks at her in disbelief. “There  _ isn’t _ any coming back from it. Jeyne hates me, and she’s right to.”

“Jeyne could never hate you. She’s been soft for you since we captured the  _ Esgred, _ and I’ll wager that softness was there a long time before then. You just need to prove you’re a better man than the one she last spoke to.”

“Am I, though?” he asks dully. 

His sister takes his chin in her hand, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Maybe not yet, but I believe you can be. You were a lordly fool when we reunited, do you remember? And now look at you. You’ve come a long way, baby brother, and you will come a longer way still in the days to come.”

He looks away, unable to meet his sister’s eye. “We’ll see.”

She releases his chin only to pat him none-too-gently on the cheek. “Go use that bow you love so well and catch some dinner; I’d kill for some fresh pork.”

.

Most of the Iron Fleet hobbles in in twos and threes in the days to come. Many of the ships were damaged by storms and hard winds, and they work on repairs while they wait for the others.

Theon is always busy, because if he isn’t hunting in the woods, he’s shooting down monkeys for every captain who bellows for him. He and the Summer Islanders have become extremely popular, able to reach the monkeys from deck where the men had had to climb up the rigging and chase them down themselves before. Most of the monkeys learn to avoid the ships after this, but every now and then a few daring monsters will make their way onto the ships, screeching and chattering as they taunt the men to come after them.

Two weeks pass, and in that time, only fifteen more ships appear. They all left together, so it stands to reason that they shouldn’t be far apart, so to have less than forty come back together…

“There’s a reason so few ironborn travel so far east,” Dagmer says grimly over salted pork one night. It seems to be the only thing they ever eat these days. “Winter is coming, as your Starks say, and even halfway across the world, the winter seas are rough. The journey back will be even harder.”

Theon had not thought about that. What if they don’t make it? 

He voices this to Asha, who shakes her head. “It was madness for Victarion to split the fleet into so many squadrons. When we return to Westeros, we will all travel together. It will be slower going, but at least we won’t have this farce.”

The ironborn aren’t the only ones who seem to view this as some kind of mad jape. Every day, Victarion loses a little bit more of his iron grip on them. He keeps to himself mostly, hiding out in his cabin or hunting alone. Arya points out that he wears his gloves all the time, and Theon realizes he has not seen his uncle’s bare hands since Old Wyk. 

“He’s injured his hand,” Arya states matter-of-factly. “It’s why he’s always in his cabin or wearing a sour look on his face. It pains him, but he doesn’t want anyone to see.”

Victarion  _ does _ seem to have a sour look on his face more often than not these days, but if Theon didn’t know any better, he would say it was the number of ships appearing. The sour expression only grows when Ralf the Limper appears, moving slowly and painstakingly when he climbs board the  _ Iron Victory. _ Theon is on his  _ Sea Bitch _ and cannot hear the conversation, but he sees his uncle slap the other man twice about the face and storm off, so whatever news the Limper had brought could not have been good. 

At least he had brought fourteen ships, though two of them are so damaged by storms that they have to be towed. The men quickly set to work on repairing these, trying to make them seaworthy; the sooner, the better.

Two days pass without event, and on the third,  _ Headless Jeyne _ and  _ Fear _ join them. It’s another three days before the  _ Ravenfeeder _ and  _ Iron Kiss _ tow a battered cog named the  _ Noble Lady _ behind them, and the next day brings a single ship,  _ Maiden’s Bane. _ Three more days pass, but all that comes out of them is  _ Grief. _

“Sixty-three,” Asha declares, watching the lonesome ship row towards them. “Out of almost a hundred. And a goodly number are cogs and merchanters. Good for transporting an army--”

“--but not for fighting a battle by sea if it comes down to it,” Theon finishes. “Aye. We’re very nearly fucked.”

“Very nearly,” she agrees. “Still, sixty-three is better than none at all.”

Theon does some quick counting. “How many of us are there, do you think?”

She does some quick counting of her own. “Three thousand, more or less. Probably less.”

He nods. “And how many Unsullied are there?”

“Ten thousand, I think they said.” She realizes what he means just then. “Fuck. It’s not enough.”

“Not nearly enough,” he agrees. 

Asha shakes her head. “This was folly. Even a hundred ships was just barely enough.”

“Maybe more will come.”

But they both know they won’t.

Victarion has realized it, too, because Wulfe One-Ear approaches them before long.

“Your uncle has sent for you when the other lord captains are gathered,” he tells them. “All hunting parties are to be recalled and the shore camps broken up by first light. Load as much fruit and pigs on the ships as you can. The  _ Shark _ will remain here to tell any stragglers where we’ve gone. We sail on the evening tide tomorrow.”

Theon and Asha trade a look.

“Very well,” Asha says. “What do you make of all this, Wulfe?”

The man looks startled to be asked for his opinion. Theon imagines he doesn’t get asked very often. 

“I don’t know, my lady.”

“Nine and ninety ships set sail from the Stepstones, is that right? Yet only three and sixty are gathered here; nine of those are my ships, and several others are cogs and galleys taken on the high seas.”

Wulfe glances around, as if afraid of being overheard, and then leans in, lowering his voice. “In truth, we all thought it was folly, your uncle dividing the fleet. Red Ralf Stonehouse weren’t a foolish man, but he’s nowhere to be found, and those storms south of Old Valyria were the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“We encountered them on the way, too,” Asha tells him. “I wonder if my nuncle plans to divide the fleet again on the return journey.”

“Maybe you can convince him; he will not listen to us,” Wulfe complains.

Asha glances at Theon. “That’s a shame, for a captain not to heed the advice of his own men.”

“My lord captain has his own way of doing things.” Wulfe glances over their shoulders. “Who does the girl belong to?”

Theon and Asha follow his gaze to where Jeyne is on the deck of the  _ Esgred, _ dumping a bucket over the side of the ship and making a face at something Hagena is telling her.

Asha had asked Jeyne to stay out of sight as much as possible; with nearly three thousand men and only a handful of women between them, she had worried for Jeyne’s safety. The younger woman has stayed belowdecks for much of their time on the isle, but no one can spend so much time hidden away. Especially not someone who, after having been locked away for two years, has finally tasted freedom again. The other men know that there are women and girls on Asha’s ships and have thankfully not asked many questions, but Theon knows that if they find out a pretty girl like Jeyne doesn’t belong to anyone, all it would take is one drink too many after weeks of high tempers and low patience for them to come after her.

“Me,” Asha says, turning back to Wulfe. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Wulfe looks disbelieving. “She’s yours?”

“She’s mine. Surely the men have told you stories about my perversions?” Asha asks dryly. 

Wulfe turns red. “I only meant...she keeps to the merchanter, and not to your  _ Black Wind. _ ”

“Tell me true, Wulfe, would  _ you _ want a woman hanging about in your room all day, every day, for months on end?” she asks in that same dry tone.

Wulfe has clearly never had a woman hanging about in his room before and doesn’t want to show it, so he nods knowingly. “Ah, I see.”

“Better for her and me if I keep her on a different ship, and visit her when I want to take pleasure.” She claps his arm. “I’ll send for my men who are onshore now. We’ll be ready to sail by the evening tide tomorrow.”

He nods, looking relieved, and leaves them to speak to the other captains.

“That was bloody close,” Asha mutters.

“You handled it well.” Theon glances back at Jeyne, who’s even now disappearing belowdecks. “Still…”

“Aye, I know. I’ll sleep on the  _ Esgred _ tonight, just in case.” Her eyes wander back to Wulfe One-Ear. “I don’t trust him.”

Theon follows her gaze. “No?”

“He has that stupid, slavish loyalty to Victarion that Victarion has to his brothers. Or had.”

Theon glances back at his sister. “He still hasn’t made up his mind?”

“Thinking has never been his strong suit,” Asha says wryly. “But I think he will.”

There’s a commotion on board the  _ Iron Victory _ , one that has Victarion’s men shouting and the monkeys screaming. The men are standing in a ring, and in the middle are Victarion and a man with skin so black he looks like a shadow. 

_ “Kill him!” _ the men are chanting.  _ “Kill him, send him to the Drowned God!” _

_ “No!” _ Victarion roars, and grabs the shadow man and shoves him belowdecks.

Theon and Asha exchange looks.

“The fuck was that about?”

It’s Longwater Pyke who hears them, leaning over the side of the  _ Iron Victory. _ “The Vole found a wizard in the water. Says he’s a priest of the red god.”

“R’hllor?” There are many strange gods in Essos, and the Lord of Light had turned up in almost every port city they’d come across. 

“He knows things,” Longwater Pyke continues. “Like that we were making for Slaver’s Bay, and that we were waiting here. And then your uncle stumbled and nearly fell out of  _ nowhere. _ Almost as if he’d been cursed.”

Theon and Asha trade another look.

“Is that why you were all shouting for him to be killed?” Asha wants to know.

“It is. Even the monkeys were screaming and raining shit down upon us.”

“The monkeys scream and rain shit down upon us all the time, wizards or no,” she reminds him. “He’s not a wizard, just a man spinning lies to keep his miserable life for as long as he can.”

.

Wizard or not, Victarion and the man do not reappear for the rest of the day. The men on his ship claim they can hear wild laughter, and when Longwater Pyke and Wulfe One-Ear try the door, they find it barred. Later, even from the deck of the  _ Sea Bitch, _ Theon can hear a high, strange wailing song. Captivated, he and every other man, woman, and child in the fleet stare at the ship while the monkeys screech and throw themselves into the water. 

At sunset, Victarion comes back on deck, naked from the waist up, his left arm blood up to the elbow. Everyone has been watching and waiting, and they watch and wait now for something to happen. 

Victarion does not disappoint.

He raises a charred and blackened hand, wisps of smoke curling away from him as he points at his maester. “That one. Cut his throat and throw him in the sea, and the winds will favor us all the way to Meereen.” And then, to Theon’s horror, he points his smoking finger at Asha. “Niece. I accept your offer. I will have Daenerys Targaryen and the Iron Throne. You can have the Seastone Chair and call yourself whatever you like...so long as you submit to me.”

Asha swallows. “Of course, nuncle.”

Victarion throws back his head and laughs a strange, horrible laugh. Theon cannot ever remember his uncle laughing. He hopes he never has to hear it again. 


	17. Chapter 17

He spends a sleepless night aboard the  _ Sea Bitch, _ unable to forget the sound of his uncle’s laughter. 

What had  _ happened _ in his cabin? Two weeks he had spent mulling over Asha’s proposal, but a few hours with the red priest and Victarion had emerged with a smoking hand and a mind to take the Iron Throne. And he had laughed. He had laughed like a madman.

Maybe the men were right to fear this red priest and call him a wizard. Maybe they should have offered him up to the Drowned God.

_ And what then? My uncle would still not have his mind made up. _

But does it matter? Even if Asha is queen in name, she would not be in truth, for she would still have to submit to Victarion.

It’s an hour or two before sunrise that he gives up on sleep and wanders over to the  _ Esgred, _ where he finds his sister sitting in the galley.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t think I’ll sleep for a while after that.”

“Me either. What the fuck was that?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” He sits across from his sister. “You don’t think...the red god…?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Arya said that she knew a red priest in Westeros. He was able to bring a man back from the dead.”

“Thoros of Myr,” Theon remembers.

“If he could do that, who’s to say there isn’t a red god, and that he wields power over men?”

“Our uncle Aeron,” Theon points out.

“That’s another thing. Everyone says Aeron disappeared after the kingsmoot.”

“Well,” Theon says delicately, “he is a bit...odd.”

“A bit odd, aye, but to disappear when he was planning to preach against Euron?”

“That  _ is _ odd,” he allows. “You don’t think…?”

“Euron killed one brother; why not a second?” She shakes her head. “I don’t like any of this. I knew it was a gamble, coming to Victarion’s side, but now...I just don’t know. Maybe we were better off as pirates.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“What’s the point of being queen if I still have to acknowledge Victarion as my king?” she retorts. 

“You’d still be queen,” he points out. “Aye, he may want tithes and the occasional use of the Iron Fleet, but is that such a hard price to pay for the Seastone Chair?”

Asha clenches her jaw. “Tell me, baby brother, if Robb Stark had been given a similar offer--that he could call himself King in the North while acknowledging the bastard Joffrey as his true king--would you tell him the same thing?”

He bristles at that. “Fuck you. Don’t you bring Robb into this.”

“Why not? You served him without question, why won’t you do the same for me?”

“I betrayed him, Asha, for my family, for  _ this _ family! Yours and mine! And now look where I am. I swore to follow you to the ends of the earth and I  _ have, _ Asha. Is it not enough? What more do I have to do to prove I’m loyal to you?”

Asha winces, her eyes dropping to the table. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was unkind of me. You have followed me across the world and would again. I know that. I only...chafed at what I did not want to hear.”

He softens. “If it makes you feel any better...that was the advice I would give Robb if he were here today. When I was younger, I would’ve told him to fuck the Lannisters and put Joffrey’s head on a pike before he acknowledged him as his king, but...sometimes there are more important things than revenge. Like peace. That’s what you told the men at the kingsmoot. You told them that under you, they’d have peace. No more war and widows and families burying their dead. That’s what you’ll have under Victarion if you submit to him. The Iron Islands may still answer to him, but you’d be their queen, you’d wear the driftwood crown and sit the Seastone Chair. It wouldn’t be his name they’d shout. It would be yours.”

Asha gives him a wry smile. “You’re a good talker, baby brother.”

“I try.”

“Peace,” she muses. “Aye, that’s what the Iron Islands deserve. And that’s what I’ll give them. When they are mine.”

.

The hours leading up to their departure are tense. There is no more singing or laughter, and in fact, Victarion spends much of the day overseeing preparations, but even still, the men are quiet. Afraid. They had all heard the singing and the laughing and the maester’s screams as they’d thrown him into the water. Even though none of them had cared much for the maester, it was still a sudden and bloody start to the last leg of their journey. 

The sky is blood red when they leave the Isle of Cedars, the  _ Iron Victory _ leading sixty-two ships north to Meereen. The  _ Shark _ is too damaged to sail, so they will repair the ship and tell any stragglers where the Iron Fleet went if they make it. 

Three nights after leaving the isle, they take their first prize, a trading galley called  _ Ghiscari Dawn.  _ Victarion offers the captain to the Drowned God, but names the ship  _ Red God’s Wrath _ for Moqorro. 

“Not much wrath in a trading galley that didn’t even put up a fight,” the Cleftjaw mutters when he hears that, but that is all he says on the matter. He fears Victarion too much to say anything out loud, but more than that, he fears Moqorro.

The red priest is red no longer; whether because the salt-stained robes were an embarrassment or because Victarion had hoped to make Moqorro fit in better amongst the men, he had had black robes made for the priest. But for his white beard and the streaks of gold along the back and sleeves of the robe, Moqorro looks even more like a shadow before, and while the men do not call for his death, they do seem to fear him. But how could they not, after what they had seen and heard?

To make matters worse, Moqorro kindles a fire on the forecastle every night and stalks about the flames, chanting and hissing. One oarsman is heard to say that the priest is calling demons down upon them, and Victarion has him scourged until his back is bloody for that. 

Yet a storm comes out of nowhere the following day, rocking the ships until even Theon feels sick. By the time it’s over, three ships have disappeared. No one knows what happened to them--if they foundered from the storm or were blown off course, but either way, the fleet cannot wait. 

“They know where we are going,” Victarion tells those who can hear. “If they are still afloat, we will meet again.”

“I bet they picked up and left,” Asha tells Theon. “They were afraid of this strange new man--and Moqorro, too. They had the right idea. I wonder how many more men will  _ disappear _ over this journey.”

There are no more storms or ships to disappear in them, but they do capture more ships; a Myrish cog named  _ Dove, _ which Victarion renames  _ Shrike,  _ and a pair of galleys that they chase for nearly a day; when they finally capture them, they find nothing but empty holds and stale news. Victarion kills the free men, frees the slaves, and renames the ships  _ Ghost  _ and  _ Shade. _

When they reach the cliffs of Yaros, they find the three ships they had thought lost.

_ Fools, _ Theon thinks,  _ you should have left when you had the chance. _

Victarion gives the command to take every ship they encounter, so every man, woman, and child in Meereen will know who’s coming. 

They take two trading galleys full of riches, a fishing ketch that was more trouble than it was worth, and a slaver galley full of twenty boys and eighty women and girls headed for the pillow houses of Lys. Victarion puts the slavers to the sword, wraps the boys in chains and throws them overboard, strikes the chains from the slaves rowing the ship, and divides all but seven of the girls amongst his captains.

Theon is given one of these prizes, a frightened slip of a girl barely holding back tears. He has no intention of touching her, but he isn’t about to admit that; not only would he be a laughingstock amongst the men, but someone else would take the girl, and probably not be very kind to her. So Theon takes her to his cabin and feeds her and offers her wine before leaving her. He can sleep on his sister’s floor tonight.

Victarion renames the slaver galley  _ Slaver’s Scream _ . With her, the Iron Fleet now numbers seventy, and Theon has a feeling it will grow even bigger in the days to come.

“Every ship we capture makes us stronger,” Victarion tells the men, “but from here it will grow harder. On the morrow or the day after, we are like to meet with warships. We are entering the home waters of Meereen, where the fleets of our foes await us. We will meet with ships from all three Slaver Cities, ships from Tolos and Elyria and New Ghis, even ships from Qarth. These slavers are feeble things. You have seen how they run before us, heard how they squeal when we put them to the sword. Every man of you is worth twenty of them, for only we are made of iron. Remember this when first we spy some slaver’s sails. Give no quarter and expect none. What need have we of quarter? We are the ironborn, and two gods look over us. We will seize their ships, smash their hopes, and turn their bay to blood.”

The men cheer, and then Victarion does something terrible.

The seven girls he kept for himself--or so Theon thought--are brought forth. He kisses each one on the cheek, saying something to them that Theon cannot hear from the  _ Sea Bitch, _ and then puts them on the fishing ketch. Theon watches in interest as the ketch is cut loose--and then set afire.

He looks at his sister, whose eyes are as wide as his. 

“With this gift of innocence and beauty, we honor both the gods,” Victarion proclaims over the women’s screams. “Let these girls be reborn in light, undefiled by mortal lust, or let them descend to the Drowned God’s watery halls, to feast and dance and laugh until the seas dry up.”

“This is not the Old Way,” one of Theon’s men mutters. 

Another agrees, “There’s only the Drowned God and the Storm God. Might be this red god is another name for the Storm God, and this priest is his minion.”

Theon wouldn’t go  _ that _ far...but there is certainly something sinister about this red god, and the priest who serves him. 

_ And now he has my uncle in his clutches. _

.

He does spend the night on the  _ Black Wind, _ sleeping on a pile of blankets on the floor of Asha’s cabin. Or trying to, anyway. The women’s screams still echo in his ears, the smell of burning flesh and bones still clinging to the air. 

His man was right. This is not the Old Way. And it’s not that Theon has any great devotion to the Old Way, but he certainly does not trust  _ this _ way. What kind of god requires such sacrifices? Even sacrifices to the Drowned God are disposable men, traitors or criminals who will serve the Drowned God in his watery halls. Women are never sacrificed, let alone women who have done nothing wrong. He would never have done this if it were not for that bloody priest.

_ How long before it’s his own men he sacrifices? How long before it’s a whole ship? _

He’s finally found sleep when a pounding on Asha’s door startles them both awake, and he’s barely sat up when Arya bursts in, her eyes wide.

“They’ve taken her!”

“What?” Asha asks blearily, reaching for her dirk.

“Jeyne! Victarion’s men, they came into our cabin and took her--”

Theon is already on his feet, grabbing his belt and fastening it with trembling fingers.  _ Jeyne. _ “Did they say why?”

“They didn’t say anything, except to fuck off.” Arya has a bruise on her cheek, he sees now; he can only imagine what sort of fight she put up. “They put her in a boat.”

Theon pushes past her, thundering up the stairs to the  _ Black Wind’s _ deck, which is moored beside the  _ Iron Victory. _ Theon peers over the side and sees that there is indeed a boat between the two ships, and in the predawn light, he sees Jeyne sitting in it in her nightgown, her wrists bound and a gag over her mouth. Wulfe One-Ear and Longwater Pyke are trying to get her out and up a ladder, but Theon makes the drop down and throws Longwater Pyke out of the boat. The other man hits the water with a splash, and Wulfe One-Ear curses when he sees Theon.

“Stay out of this, boy,” he says sternly. 

Wulfe is bigger and stronger than Theon, but Theon is slight and agile, and he ducks Wulfe’s hands and manages to knock the other man into the water as well. Longwater Pyke is trying to climb aboard by then, but Theon brings the hilt of his dirk down on his hands, and Longwater yelps and sinks back.

Theon takes the gag from Jeyne’s mouth and cuts the rope around her wrists. Her eyes are wide and full of tears.

“Theon…”

“You’re alright,” he tells her, knowing he can’t waste a moment; Wulfe will be coming for him next. He stands up, lifting Jeyne about the waist; from the deck of the  _ Black Wind, _ Rolfe the Dwarf is reaching for her; the boat rocks as Wulfe climbs back into it, but Rolfe has Jeyne’s hands by then and lifts her up and onto the  _ Black Wind. _

“Idiot,” Wulfe declares, glowering at Theon. “Victarion will have the girl, one way or another.”

Theon points his dirk at Wulfe. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Nephew.”

Theon and Wulfe both look up at the  _ Iron Victory, _ where Victarion is looking at Theon in distaste. His crew is looking at Theon, too, and Moqorro and the “dusky woman,” as Victarion calls her. Men on the other ships are peering at them as well, curious. 

“What do you want with her, uncle?” Theon asks.

“Her blood,” Victarion says frankly. “To wake the dragon horn. He who claims it will bind dragons to his will.”

_ He is truly mad. _

“Find someone else’s blood,” Theon retorts. “You can’t have hers.”

“It is not you to tell me what I can and cannot have, nephew. I am your king, and the red god’s chosen.”

“How can you be King of the Iron Islands and worship a red god?” Theon demands. “This red god is not of the ironborn.”

He doesn’t imagine the mutters he hears around him. Victarion hears them, too, and gnashes his teeth. 

“And what would you know of the ironborn, little nephew? You, who grew up so far from the sea?”

“I know that even in the heart of the green land, I worshipped the Drowned God and no other,” Theon retorts. “One hour with this priest and you began worshipping his god. What does that say about you?”

More mutters, and Theon can see Victarion’s eyes flit to the different ships, realizing that he is losing this argument. 

“Those are bold words,” Victarion says at last, “coming from a boy hiding beneath his sister’s skirts.”

“Alright, then.” Theon climbs up the rope ladder on the  _ Iron Victory, _ staring down his uncle as he swings over the side. Loud enough for the onlookers to hear him, he says, “You worship a false god. You do not deserve to sit the Seastone Chair. And you will not have Jeyne’s blood or any part of her.”

“I’m not a kinslayer,” Victarion growls, “but that will change if you don’t get on your knees now, boy.”

Theon’s blood is pounding in his ears. It’s too late. Even if he does apologize and beg his uncle’s forgiveness, he doesn’t trust the older man to spare his life, or Jeyne’s. But what’s he going to do? Challenge him? Kill him?

He glances behind him at the  _ Black Wind, _ where Asha and Jeyne are gripping the rail and watching him with wide eyes. 

_ If I die, I die. But not without taking him with me. _

He turns back to Victarion. “Sorry, uncle. I won’t kneel for you, or any man. I’ll kneel for my sister and no one else.”

Victarion raises his fists. “I’ve killed four men with these fists, and the red god has blessed one of them. This is your last chance, boy.”

Theon raises his own fists in defiance.

Victarion swings first, knocking Theon back. He staggers to the side, his chest sore, and swings; Victarion dodges, kicking Theon in the stomach. While he’s bent double, Victarion grabs him, throwing him down on the deck. Twice more, Theon rushes at his uncle, and both times, Victarion knocks him to the ground. 

“Stay down,” Victarion orders, “or I’ll kill you.”

_ What is dead may never die, _ Theon thinks madly, _ but rises again, harder and stronger. _

He pushes himself to his feet, staggering. 

Victarion shakes his head. “I warned you, boy.” He grabs Theon by the throat with his evil hand, lifting him up so high that Theon’s feet dangle in the air. He squeezes until black presses in the edges of Theon’s vision.

And then something strange happens.

The hand crumbles around his neck, the grip loosening, and Theon hits the deck with a thud. When he looks up, he sees that Victarion’s hand is dissolving into ashes. The other man is screaming, and behind him, the red priest sinks to the ground, his eyes open and blank. Behind him stands the dusky woman, a bloody knife in her hand and a determined look on her face.

“Theon!” Asha shouts, and when he looks up, his sister hurls a throwing axe at the ship. It lands on the side, buried in a plank, and Theon scrambles to wrench it loose. He turns back to his uncle, who’s still screaming, and swings the axe at his head. 

Victarion sways on the spot before toppling to the deck, blood spilling out of the axe wound. He’s still moving, his lips forming soundless words; Theon pries the axe loose and swings a second time, severing Victarion’s head from his shoulders.

All seventy ships are silent as a crypt as Theon stands up. In the early dawn light, he lifts his uncle’s head for all to see. 

“Some of you shouted my uncle’s name at the kingsmoot. Some of you wanted to see Victarion on the Seastone Chair. More of you wanted to see my uncle Euron. Well, where has that gotten you? While Euron sits in the Shields drinking Arbor gold and fucking lords’ daughters, where were you? Sailing across the world to court his bride for him. There were ninety-nine ships that set out from the Stepstones, and how many of you made it to the Isle of Cedars? Less than half, if you don’t count the merchanters and trading galleys my uncle valiantly caught. Very bold, attacking fishing ketches and galleys full of slaves.” He drops Victarion’s head, kicking it across the deck. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a godless man like Euron on the Seastone Chair, or a man who worships this red devil.”

He hears some scattered “ayes”. 

“We’ve had some shit kings. It’s time for a queen. It’s time for my father’s  _ true _ heir to take her place on the Seastone Chair.” He points to his sister. “Asha has always been our true queen. Will you listen to her now? Or do more of you need to die for a shit king?”

There’s a pause, and then,

_ “ASHA!” _

_ “QUEEN ASHA!” _

_ “ASHA! ASHA! ASHA! ASHA!” _

As the sea fills with the sound of Asha’s name, Theon moves from the  _ Iron Victory _ to the  _ Black Wind. _ Though they are all calling her name, Asha reaches for him, embracing her brother so tightly it threatens to take his very breath away.

“Thank you, Theon,” she murmurs. 

When she releases him, some of the men clap him on the back and shoulders, congratulating him. And then, all of a sudden, Jeyne is pushing through them to get to him, and before he can say anything, she takes his face in her hands and kisses him. 

A cheer goes up, but Theon barely hears it as he wraps his arms around Jeyne’s waist and kisses back. She smells like lavender and rosemary, and her kiss tastes sweeter than summerwine. 


	18. Chapter 18

It takes four days for them to reach Meereen. They capture twelve more ships in that time, Yunkish warships and galleys that bring their number to eighty-two.

Best of all, though, a host of fifteen ironborn longships joins them two days from Meereen. They had been lost in a storm, and were directed by the crew of the  _ Shark. _ Where the Iron Fleet had come through the straits, they had sailed around the island of Yaros, and met the fleet in Meereenese waters. This now brings their numbers to ninety-seven, almost as many as set out from the Stepstones, and enough to carry an army of Unsullied to Westeros.

Asha has decided to offer the Iron Fleet to Daenerys Targaryen and help her take the Iron Throne, on the condition that Daenerys helps rid her of Euron and acknowledges her as Queen of the Iron Islands. Without an offer of marriage, Theon imagines Daenerys might look more favorably upon such an alliance.

He spends a good deal of those four days with Asha, planning not just how they will convince Daenerys Targaryen to aid them, but how they will return to Westeros and take down Euron. He still has thirty or forty longships at his disposal, and whatever greenland ships he took as his prizes. The two fleets may be well matched, but if all goes well, Asha will have dragons accompanying her fleet. Not even Euron can boast that.

When Theon is not with his sister, he’s in his own cabin with Jeyne.

That kiss on the deck of the  _ Black Wind _ had been the first of many to come. They do a lot of kissing, and touching, and more than that if she’s feeling bold enough. He is slow and gentle with her, and always waits for her to tell him what she wants and when. 

Sometimes they just sit and talk; about the past, about the future, about people and places they will never see again and people and places they have yet to encounter. Sometimes they just sleep, too tired from the humidity to do much else. 

And it is humid here. Though it’s not that much worse than the Stepstones, at least there had been breezes from the open air to cool them. The high cliffs of this region do not leave much room for breezes; if anything, the pale yellow stone seems to catch the sunlight and throw it onto the water tenfold. 

When they finally do reach the city of Meereen, it is to find a haze of smoke over the bay. The reason for this, Theon sees as they draw closer, is because there are half-burned ships floating in the bay. There are many and more unburned ships floating nearby; some of them bear a harpy on their sails, while others look to be plain merchanters and cogs. 

“I count sixty or seventy,” Asha says. “With our ninety-seven, that should be plenty to carry her army.”

It should be, but Theon knows his sister is still nervous. There’s no guarantee that Daenerys Targaryen will accept her offer. Perhaps she has a better offer. Perhaps she’s decided to stay here, and wants nothing to do with the Seven Kingdoms.

“She’ll say yes,” Theon says confidently. “She’d be a fool not to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“We have more ships than Euron.”

“Well that’s true.”

Arya slips up beside them. “I get to meet the dragon queen, right?”

“Of course,” Asha says. “I need a Stark by my side. And I need Jeyne, too, since she’s the only refined one of the four of us. Where is she?”

“She’s still dressing,” Arya says, rolling her eyes. “Or trying to. She’s all nervous about meeting the queen; she’s gone through every dress she has at least three times.”

“Maybe I should help her,” Theon says with an innocence that fools no one.

Arya scowls at him. “Just don’t... _ do _ anything. That’s where I sleep, you know.”

“Which will win,” Asha muses with a smirk. “My brother’s love of clothes, or his love of undressed women?”

_ “Stop!” _ Arya wails.

.

Theon does find Jeyne in the cabin she shares with Arya, wearing only her shift as she rummages through the sea of dresses flung on every surface. 

“I don’t know what to  _ wear, _ ” she laments as soon as Theon closes the door behind him.

“Your choices are so limited,” he says dryly. 

“Don’t make fun.”

“You have lots of lovely dresses,” he says in a more serious tone. 

“Yes, but none of them look...Westerosi enough.”

He huffs out a small laugh. “They don’t need to look Westerosi enough. Daenerys Targaryen has never even been to Westeros, how will she know the difference?”

Jeyne looks thoughtful at that. “Well...I suppose you’re right. Still. I need...the right one. I don’t want to look too plain, but I don’t want to stand out too much, either. So it has to look modest, but elegant. And…” She sighs. “Can you pick one for me?”

He eyes the sea of silks and satins around him before picking up a pale blue dress with silver pins in the shoulders and a silver rope around the waist. “What about this one?”

She eyes him and the dress before nodding. “Not a bad choice. Help me put it on?”

“I prefer taking clothes off you to putting them on,” he says, but he does, and then attempts to put the room in some semblance of order while she chooses earrings and bracelets. She has a lot to choose from; as one of the only women in their pirate fleet, and one of the only ones to care about such things, she had had her pick of the clothes and jewelry plundered from merchant ships. 

“But which earrings do I wear? What if the queen--”

“Jeyne,” he says with a fond exasperation, “she’s not going to be looking at your ears.”

She huffs. “You ironborn have no imagination.”

He laughs at that. “I have more than most, though.”

“And yet you can’t help me pick out earrings.” She reaches into one of the gilded boxes on her vanity and pulls out a pair of silver studs. “I think these look pretty, but if the dragon queen hates them so much she wants to cut off my head, I want it known that you refused to help, and it’s entirely your fault.”

Theon wraps his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “If she tries to hurt you, she’ll join my uncle.”

Jeyne stills, resting her hands over his. “If you don’t stop killing kings and queens for me, people will begin to talk.”

“So they will.”

“They’ll say we’re in love.”

Theon presses a kiss to her ear. “Aren’t we?”

She flushes. “I don’t know. We haven’t said yet.”

He realizes that she’s right. “Then I’ll say it now. I love you.”

For a sudden terrible moment, he’s afraid he’s grossly miscalculated and she doesn’t want to say it back...but then she murmurs, “I love you, Theon.” She turns in his arms to kiss him, and they are still kissing when Arya barges in.

“I  _ told _ you not to do anything in here!”

.

The infamous Unsullied meet them at the dock, looking proud and fierce in their black armor. They walk and stand as one perfectly synchronized unit, individual bodies with the same mind.

Their leader calls out to them in Valyrian.

“Do you speak the Common Tongue?” Asha asks as she climbs the ladder to the dock.

“Yes,” the leader says in a heavily accented voice. “Who are you and what is your business in Meereen?”

“My name is Asha Greyjoy, and my business is with Queen Daenerys. I hear she needs ships to sail to Westeros. I have ships.” She gestures to the Iron Fleet, as if the Unsullied commander may not have already seen them.

He considers this. “Come with me.”

Theon, Asha, Jeyne, and Arya follow the Unsullied up a sloping path into the city proper. The Meereenese stare at the foreigners, murmuring in their harsh Ghiscari tongue. 

“I’m sweating like a whore in a sept,” Asha grunts, tugging at the neck of her jerkin. Theon is sweating too, his armor and leather offering no respite from the humid Meereenese air. He envies Jeyne in her sleeveless silk dress, or even Arya in her linen shirt. 

_ If all goes well, we’ll be out of here soon, and back in Westeros where it’s nice and cold. _

The Unsullied take them up to a great pyramid, a high, stepped structure that Theon assumes is the dwelling place of the city’s rulers. He’s sweating rivulets by the time they reach the top of the stairs, but it’s cool inside the pyramid, and that offers him some solace. The floors, walls, and ceiling are made of limestone, and the shade from inside is nearly as refreshing as a cold bath. He rubs his sleeve over his face, trying to wipe away the perspiration; he doesn’t want to make a bad first impression on the queen.

The Unsullied tell them to wait in the foyer while they speak with the queen. The party of four sits on the stone benches, eyeing the other supplicants. There are five, all men in robes ranging from dirty burlap to dyed satin. They are called one at a time; three of them are only in the receiving chamber for a handful of minutes, while the other two are in there for much longer. 

“I wonder what she’s like,” Arya says softly. 

“Well, we’re about to find out.” 

Jeyne threads her bare fingers through Theon’s gloved ones; she looks calm, but he knows she’s fighting off her nerves. He wishes he could say something to comfort her, but in truth, he’s nervous, too. As far as they’ve come, as much as they’ve risked, what if it isn’t enough for the dragon queen?

Finally, the Unsullied captain returns to escort the Greyjoy party into the throne room. 

What the throne room lacks in color and charm it makes up for in rich architecture. This is no simple four-cornered room; there are twenty or thirty corners, hidden nooks and jutting walls, and steps leading into doorways or disappearing completely. The floor is a tiled mosaic depicting harpies and pyramids and armies, and white clay tablets on the walls depict similar scenes. 

A tower of steps leads up to the throne, a carved marble seat set beneath a monstrous harpy, but the throne itself is empty. On the landing below it is a plain black bench, and sitting on that is a woman who can only be Daenerys Targaryen. Silver-blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, and though her gown is a plain black, her bearing is regal.

A woman on the steps declares, “You stand before Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Asha raises an appropriately impressed eyebrow. “I’m Asha Greyjoy. I don’t have any titles yet, but I’m hoping you can help me change that. This is my brother Theon, and our companions, Arya of House Stark and Jeyne of House Poole.”

One of Daenerys’s attendants, a dwarf that Theon had not paid much attention to, comes to stand at the end of the landing, staring at them. 

“Theon Greyjoy and Arya Stark,” he declares in a voice Theon has heard before. His stomach drops.

“Tyrion Lannister.”

“I admit, I’m rather perplexed at this grouping,” Tyrion Lannister says. He looks different now; his hair has darkened a few shades since Theon last saw him, and a bushy beard covers much of his face. But he is unmistakably Tyrion Lannister. “I would have thought you two were enemies, considering one of you sacked the other’s home and killed her brothers.”

“He didn’t kill them,” Arya says, eyes narrowed. “That was just a lie. But if I recall correctly, it was on  _ your _ family’s orders that my father, mother, and brother Robb were murdered.”

“My family’s,” Tyrion says softly, “but not mine. You may not have noticed, Lady Arya, but my own family tried to kill me, so you can see, I can sympathize. If it’s any consolation, I  _ did _ end up killing my father.”

Arya’s eyes are still narrowed. “Then you had nothing to do with Jeyne?”

“Who’s Jeyne?”

“Me,” Jeyne says softly. “You may not remember me, my lord, but I was Lady Sansa’s companion. My father was Lord Stark’s steward.”

Tyrion furrows his brow. “Forgive me, my lady, but I do not recall our meeting.”

“We did not, but…” Jeyne swallows, and Theon brushes his hand reassuringly against hers. “When your sister the queen killed Lord Stark’s household, I was...made your sister’s prisoner.”

“I’m truly sorry, my lady, but I assure you I knew nothing of this. My sister made it a point to never share her schemes with me, considering I was on the receiving end of more than one of them.”

Theon believes him, and even Jeyne relaxes. 

Arya, however, still doesn’t seem fully convinced of Lord Tyrion’s innocence. “You married my sister.”

“A sham marriage that neither of us wanted.” Lord Tyrion’s voice softens. “I assure you I did not lay a hand on Sansa.” He looks around at all of them. “I am here to serve Queen Daenerys, not to help the family I had the misfortune of being born into.”

Theon glances at his sister, whose eyes are locked with the queen’s. He nudges her, and she snaps back to the present.

“We are here for the same reason,” she tells Tyrion and the queen. “We have brought ninety-seven ships to carry you and your men to Westeros.”

Daenerys Targaryen finally speaks, her voice sweet but strong. “And in exchange, I suppose you want me to support Lord Theon’s claim to the Iron Islands?”

“Not my claim,” Theon says, nodding at his sister. “Hers.”

Daenerys Targaryen looks surprised, but not displeased. “Oh. And what’s wrong with you?”

“Asha is my elder, and more fit to rule,” Theon tells her. 

Daenerys turns her attention back to Asha. “Have the Iron Islands ever had a queen before?”

“No more than Westeros,” Asha says with a smile.

Even from a distance, Theon can see a faint blush on the queen’s cheeks.  _ Maybe there will be a Greyjoy-Targaryen marriage after all. _

“Our uncle Euron returned home after a long absence,” he tells the queen. “He murdered our father and took my sister’s birthright. He would have murdered us if we’d stayed.”

“Lord Tyrion tells me your father was a terrible king,” Daenerys says, not unkindly.

There is less flirtatiousness in Asha’s smile now. “You and I have that in common.”

For a moment it looks as if the queen is insulted...but then she sags her shoulders and nods. “We do. And both murdered by a usurper, as well.” She turns to Tyrion. “Will their ships be enough?”

“With the former Masters’ fleet, possibly. Barely.” He frowns. “There are more than ninety-seven ships in the Iron Islands, aren’t there?”

“There are, and they sail under Euron’s command,” Theon says. “This fleet was led by our other uncle, Victarion, who was to woo you in Euron’s name and bring you back as his bride, thus making Euron the King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But Victarion decided he would rather marry you himself,” Asha explains. 

“Yet Victarion is not here, and you are,” Daenerys observes. 

Theon and Asha glance at each other.

“He grew...quite mad, during the journey,” Asha says reluctantly. “Many people died because of his madness. We feared for our own lives. He even tried to kill Lady Jeyne, because he thought her blood would help him claim your dragons for himself. My brother challenged him for her life. Victarion lost.”

Daenerys and Tyrion exchange a look of their own.

“I see,” Daenerys says after a moment, turning back to Asha. “And I imagine your offer is free of any marriage demands?”

“I never demand, but I’m up for anything, really,” Asha says pleasantly.

Daenerys looks as if she’d very much like for Asha to demand.

“He murdered our father,” Theon presses lest the two women stare at each other and forget where they are again, “and he would’ve murdered us. He’ll murder you as soon as you have the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And you don’t want the Seven Kingdoms?” Tyrion asks skeptically.

“All we ask is the Iron Islands.”

“And that’s all?” Daenerys asks, sounding just as skeptical as Tyrion.

“We’d like you to help us murder an uncle who doesn’t think women are fit to rule,” Asha says with an easy smile.

Daenerys returns her smile. “Reasonable.”

Tyrion looks less pleased. “What if everyone starts demanding their independence?” he murmurs to his queen.

“She’s not demanding, she’s asking,” Daenerys defends. “The others are free to ask as well.” She turns back to Asha. “Our fathers were evil men. Yours, mine, and Lord Tyrion’s. They left the world worse than they found it. We’re not going to do that. We’re going to leave the world better than we found it.” She gets to her feet, slowly descending the stairs until she is on their level. “You will support my claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. No more reaving or raping.”

Asha hesitates. “The raping I’ll grant you. I’ve never let my men do it. But reaving is our way of life.”

“No more,” Daenerys says firmly.

Asha glances at Theon, her eyes questioning. He hesitates, too. Reaving  _ is _ their way of life. It’s the Old Way, the iron price. The men will not take kindly to this condition.

But everyone had said they would not take kindly to a queen, and here they are, following Asha. If the Old Way can be changed for Asha, maybe it can be changed for Daenerys, too.

He nods.

Asha turns back to Daenerys. “No more,” she agrees, holding out her arm. 

Daenerys glances back at Tyrion; he gives her a small smile, gesturing for her to take Asha’s arm. Daenerys reaches forward uncertainly; Asha shows her how to grasp her forearm, the sign of a sealed alliance. 

_ We’re going home. _


	19. Chapter 19

It takes nearly a week to prepare for the journey back to Westeros. It turns out that they aren’t just taking the Unsullied with them; Daenerys has also rallied the whole of the Dothraki to her side, so the ships must needs make room for them and their horses, as well.

“I thought the Dothraki had never traveled over the sea before?” Asha asks Daenerys in surprise.

Daenerys just gives her a smile. “They haven’t. But they will do it for me.”

Daenerys has that affect on many people, Theon’s noticed. The Unsullied follow her because they chose her, the Dothraki follow her because they chose her, even Tyrion Lannister serves her because he chose her. If she can inspire devotion in such people, surely she can inspire devotion in the people of Westeros.

Arya has already fallen under the dragon queen’s spell; she barrages the queen with questions every chance she gets, and has even started wearing painted vests in the style of the Dothraki. Daenerys, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind the attention; she answers every one of Arya’s questions patiently, and even introduces her to two of her dragons (the third, the black beast Drogon, is too wild to meet people just now, she says, but maybe someday that will change). 

Because they have to make as much room as possible for Daenerys’s armies, Arya cheerfully volunteers to sleep in a hammock in the hold of the  _ Black Wind _ and Jeyne moves her things into Theon’s cabin.

“Are you sure you won’t mind?” Jeyne presses as Theon makes space for her things. Her cabin on the  _ Esgred _ had been bigger than his own cabin, and Arya had owned very little in comparison, but Theon is not as sparse as she. It will be a bit snug in his cabin, but that’s alright; as long as Jeyne is here, that’s all that really matters to him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he assures her. “I like coming to my cabin knowing you’re here. I like knowing you’ll be here when I go to sleep and you’ll be here when I wake up.” He pulls her into his arms. “I like knowing that you’re my woman.” He presses his forehead to hers. “And truth be told, I like other people knowing you’re my woman, too.”

“I think they knew before now,” she points out. “We weren’t exactly hiding it before.”

“True,” he allows, “but now there’s no question.”

“You’re a very jealous person.”

“And?”

“It’s quite endearing.” She rises up to kiss him. “Now help me find something to wear to dinner with the queen.”

He groans. “I  _ just _ put away your things.”

She sticks out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Please?”

“Fine. Just the one trunk, though. I’m not going to rearrange the room every time you want to change clothes.” 

But he knows that he’ll probably end up doing it anyway. 

.

Daenerys is kind enough to send a litter for her guests, who are still unaccustomed to the humidity here. Theon is relieved; though it may not be the “Old Way,” he would rather not be sweaty when he sits down to dine with the queen. He still has to climb some stairs when they reach the pyramid, but at least the stairs are inside, and the window slits offer a surprisingly refreshing breeze from the night air. 

They dine in the queen’s chambers, and are surprised to find a table so low to the ground that any chair would tower over it. Not that there are any; instead, there are mats and pillows tossed artfully around the table.

“Welcome,” Daenerys greets warmly, looking radiant in a red silk gown. Tyrion is with her, as always, and servants flit in and out of the room. “I know this is not the sort of dining you are accustomed to, but I find I prefer it.” She demonstrates by sitting on the mats and pillows around the low table, resting her elbow on a mound of pillows to keep her elevated. 

The others awkwardly imitate her, finding comfortable sitting positions on the floor. Theon is glad he went without armor tonight; his leather jerkin is much more comfortable in this new position. 

Daenerys serves them a blend of traditional Meereenese dishes with a smattering of items not uncommon in the Free Cities. The spices here are not too spicy, especially when they are blended with sweet sauces, and the herbs used to prepare the lamb give it a rich flavor. The dates are sweet, and the wine is ever-flowing.

Daenerys tells them a bit about her travels and herself, and Asha shares tales of her own, and hardly anyone else talks during this time. In truth, Theon starts to suspect that the dinner was arranged to give Daenerys a chance to see more of his sister. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he glances across the table and happens to catch Tyrion’s eye; the other man gives him a pointed look, and Theon grins into his wine glass. 

He and Tyrion haven’t spoken much since the alliance was struck, and that had been just fine by Theon. He doesn’t have anything to say to Tyrion, and he can’t imagine the other man has anything he wants to say to him, either, but now it appears they have something in common: having to put up with two women who are clearly enamored of each other, and from the looks of things, are a breath away from having each other.

Indeed, Daenerys makes a comment not a moment later about her horsemanship, and Asha follows that with, “I should like to see you ride, Your Grace.”

Jeyne chokes on her wine.

“Perhaps,” Daenerys says breathlessly, “I could show you.”

“Now?”

“Now,” Daenerys says more firmly, getting up to lead Asha out of the room.

Arya starts to get up too. “Can I--”

_ “No,” _ Theon says firmly, yanking the girl to the ground. 

“But I--”

“Leave it,” he mutters, waiting until his sister and the queen have disappeared.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Theon, Jeyne, and Tyrion burst into laughter.

“Her Grace is...not entirely subtle,” Tyrion chortles, refilling his glass. “In fact, one could say she’s incredibly blunt at times.”

Arya makes a face. “Are they…?”

“Yes,” Theon says, clinking his glass with hers. She looks deeply upset.

Tyrion observes the two. “How  _ did _ the three of you come to be together? Greyjoy, the last anyone heard, you’d taken Winterfell and then disappeared, and Lady Stark, you disappeared when my sweet sister took over, and Lady Poole, you say you were my sister’s prisoner, yet somehow you managed to escape her clutches and end up here.”

Theon bristles at that last one. “She’s not lying.”

Tyrion looks amused. “Of course. Apologies. I did not mean to imply Lady Poole was lying. I simply find it curious. There is no need to challenge me for her honor, my lord.”

Theon isn’t sure if Tyrion is mocking him or not, but Jeyne rests a placating hand on his arm, turning her attention to Tyrion. “I escaped through the grace of Lord Varys.”

The amusement slides off Tyrion’s face. “Varys? Truly?”

“Truly. I had never spoken to him before, but he came for me one night. I had been a...prisoner for about two years by that point. I had not set foot outside once in that time, but no one stopped us as we left. He took me to the docks, where the captain of a merchanter was waiting. Neither one of them would tell me anything, not where we were going or why I was leaving. Lord Varys only said he owed a mutual friend a favor, and it was safer if I didn’t know anything.”

Tyrion considers this. “Alright...but how did you end up sailing with the Greyjoys?”

Jeyne glances at Theon, smiling. “They attacked the ship while we were crossing the Narrow Sea.” She turns back to Tyrion. “Theon and I grew up at Winterfell together, so we knew each other. The captain had died in the attack, and no one else on board knew where we were headed or what was to happen to me, so I became Asha’s guest. I’ve been sailing with them ever since.”

“I see,” says Tyrion, though he doesn’t sound as if he fully understands. “And how did you get from sacking Winterfell to the Narrow Sea, Lord Theon?”

“The long way,” Theon says wryly. “When I saw that the battle for Winterfell was lost, I fled. Like a coward, I’ll grant you, but I’m alive. I went to my sister at Deepwood Motte; I was there when we got word that our father had died. We made straight for the Iron Islands, where we learned that not only had our uncle Euron, who was supposed to be in exile, mysteriously turned up a day after our father’s death, but he was also trying to claim the Seastone Chair. Our uncle Aeron called a kingsmoot to decide the next ruler. Asha nearly had it...but then Euron appeared and promised dragons, and the fools went to him. We fled that very hour, and made for the Summer Isles, and then the Stepstones.”

“To live as pirates?” Tyrion surmises.

“You could say that.”

Tyrion smiles. “So I know how you ended up in the Narrow Sea, and how Lady Poole came to join you, but what about you, Lady Arya?”

Arya swallows the crab she was chewing. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.  _ Basically, _ when your sister’s men came for me, I ran away, and I was living on the streets of King’s Landing up until my father died. I was there, and I would have seen it, but a man of the Night’s Watch hid my face so I couldn’t see. He’d come to my father a few days earlier with news.”

“News?” Tyrion asks. “Was it...was the man  _ Yoren _ ?”

Arya’s eyes widen. “You knew him?!”

“I did; he and I were traveling from the Wall when your mother kidnapped me and took me to the Vale.”

All three of them are staring at Tyrion now.

“She  _ what _ ?”

“Yes; she seemed to believe I had something to do with the attempt on your brother Bran’s life. Which I didn’t, of course. Ask your aunt Lysa if you don’t believe me, my innocence was proven in a trial-by-combat.”

“I can’t ask my aunt because she’s dead,” Arya says flatly.

“Oh.” Tyrion looks abashed. “My condolences.”

“It’s alright. I never met her.”

“Lucky for you,” Tyrion mutters. “Anyway, yes, Yoren and I were traveling together to King’s Landing and we got separated when I was  _ kidnapped, _ so I assume Yoren told your father about it.”

“I don’t know, they made me leave the room. But it was Yoren who found me, and he cut my hair and called me Arry and took me with the rest of the Night’s Watch recruits. They all thought I was just an orphan boy who wanted to take the black, but the plan was to take me back to Winterfell on the way. Only we didn’t get that far, because the goldcloaks came after us and killed Yoren.”

Tyrion looks truly sad. “I am sorry to hear it.”

“They killed my friend Lommy, too,” Arya says. “Then they took us to Harrenhal, and I became a cupbearer to your father.”

“Gods,” Tyrion says with a grin, “he would’ve been furious if he’d found out he had a Stark right under his nose the whole time.”

“He would’ve,” Arya agrees warmly. “Only then he left, and then Roose Bolton took Harrenhal, and then he left too, and me and my friends managed to escape. We were captured by the Brotherhood without Banners, who were going to ransom me back to my family, but then I was captured by the Hound, who wanted the ransom for himself. We got to the Twins just as the Red Wedding was starting; he had to carry me away before anyone saw. We wandered the Riverlands for a while, and then he died, so I found a ship to take me to Braavos, where I joined the House of Black and White and trained to be a Faceless Man. Only then Jeyne and Theon came to Braavos, and said I could be a pirate with them...so I did.”

Tyrion stares at her. “That is...quite a story, my lady.” Befuddled, he turns to Theon. “So how you end up leading your uncle’s fleet?”

“We were in the Stepstones when another uncle--”

“How many uncles do you have?”

“Too many,” Theon says wryly. “This one is on our mother’s side, not our father’s. He found us and told us what Euron was planning. He said that if Victarion could be convinced to marry Daenerys himself, he might give Asha the Iron Islands.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “So you were planning on throwing in your lot with Victarion.”

“At first,” Theon agrees. “We met up at the Isle of Cedars, and he said he needed time to think. But one of his men brought this...priest to him. A red priest. He was…”

“Terrifying,” Jeyne says quietly.

“He was,” Theon agrees. “I’ve met red priests before, and none of them were like this man. He was the cause of my uncle’s madness.”

“Stannis Baratheon had a red priestess guiding him,” Tyrion muses. “Some say she put a spell on him, but others say the only spell was being a beautiful woman when he had been wed to Selyse Florent for so many years. Perhaps she did have some power over him, not unlike your uncle’s priest. I assume he did not survive the journey, either?”

“My uncle’s woman killed him. Why, I don’t know, but I can only assume she feared him as much as the rest of us.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well. I can’t imagine our queen would have taken well to such a man, or to your uncle’s proposal.”

“Do you think she would have said yes?” Theon asks curiously. 

“I would have advised against it. Daenerys will need to marry a true Westerosi lord. She’s already bringing Unsullied and Dothraki back with her; marrying an ironborn is, I say without offense, the surest way to make the Seven Kingdoms turn on her.” 

“No offense is taken, but it may be too late if you were hoping to keep an ironborn out of her bed.”

Tyrion grins. “Who’s in her bed and who’s marrying her are two different things. No, no doubt she’ll find some prince or warden or high lord to sit by her side. Some biddable fool content to let her be the Queen Regnant.”

“Won’t it be strange for you?” Arya asks. “To displace your own family?”

Tyrion gets a bitter look on his face. “Haven’t you been paying attention, Lady Arya? I hate my family.”

“Even Tommen?”

“Not Tommen,” he amends. “I love him, and Myrcella. How my sister managed to birth such sweet children after Joffrey, I’ll never know.”

“You  _ really _ didn’t kill him?”

He smiles. “I really didn’t, much as I thought about the good it would do.”

Arya considers him. “And you really didn’t hurt Sansa?”

“I really didn’t,” he says again, softer this time. “Neither of us wanted the marriage, but my father...well. You’ve met the man. You know what he can be like. The Tyrells were planning on marrying her to their eldest son, you see, and that would have given them Winterfell. Well, my father couldn’t have that, so he married her off to the next available Lannister so that we would control the North. I never touched your sister; in truth, she was more of a daughter to me than a wife. I had hoped to take her to Casterly Rock when things had settled down, where at least we’d be away from Joffrey, but then he died and she disappeared, and I was blamed for his death.”

“Do you know where she went?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “I haven’t the slightest notion. She was sitting beside me at the feast, but when they seized me, they couldn’t find her. I can only hope she escaped of her own volition, and is living a happy life in some quiet place.”

“How did you get to be here, Lord Tyrion?” Jeyne asks. “You were also a prisoner in King’s Landing, yet you killed your father and made your way to Meereen?”

“Ah, yes. I was a prisoner, and I’d been put on trial and found guilty both by my judges and by a trial-by-combat. The night before I was to be executed, Lord Varys  _ also _ helped me escape. Well, my brother Jaime let me out of my cell, and I went to the Tower of the Hand to confront my father. I took a crossbow from the wall and found him sitting on the privy. It was a most undignified death. From there, Lord Varys snuck me onto a ship crossing the Narrow Sea; I made it to Pentos, to a Magister Illyrio Mopatis, who told me he wanted me to help bring Daenerys home to Westeros, though he would not say why. After a...series of mishaps, shall we say, I ended up in Meereen, and Her Grace kindly agreed to take me on as her Hand.”

“So why are you her Hand?” Arya wants to know. “Because you believe in her, or because you hate your sister?”

“Both,” he admits. “My sister has too much power, and I don’t want her to hurt anyone else. I think Daenerys is the answer. She is good and kind, and has freed every slave in Slaver’s Bay. If anyone was the cure to the poison that is House Lannister, it’s her.”

Arya raises her glass. “To Daenerys.”

“To Daenerys,” the others echo, drinking to the dragon queen. 

.

At long last, the men and ships are ready. The harpy sails have been replaced by black sails with a red three-headed dragon, the slaver ships given new names, a carved dragon head is attached to the bow of the  _ Noble Lady, _ now renamed  _ Balerion _ so it may serve as Daenerys’s personal ship _ ,  _ the Unsullied, Dothraki, and all their horses loaded onto the ships. 

The fleet sails as one body, determined not to make the same mistake as Victarion. As they pull out of the bay and into the open waters, the dragons soar overhead, filling the air with the sounds of their cries. It almost sounds like they’re saying,  _ We’re going home. _

Theon glances over at his sister. She meets his eyes, smiling back at him. 

_ We are going home. And we’re going with an army that not even Euron can defeat. _


	20. Chapter 20

The journey to Westeros is long, and blissfully uneventful.

The size of their fleet is such that no other vessel wants to cross them, and, as their hundreds of black sails can be seen from even a great distance, the waters open up before them. When they reach the Isle of Cedars, the now-repaired  _ Shark _ rejoins them, perplexed, but not displeased.

They encounter some storms in the Summer Sea, and though there is some damage, all the ships stay afloat. Three men go overboard, but two are recovered alive; only the third drowns. Theon counts this lucky, compared to his uncle’s earlier misfortunes.

There is a great deal of merrymaking on the calm nights; it begins with Asha’s crew, used to the nights of fun they had before they joined the Iron Fleet, and it quickly spreads to the other ships. Though the Unsullied do not often partake themselves, the Dothraki like this idea of drinking and singing and celebrating. The ironborn find that they often have to come to the Dothraki, who are not yet bold enough to leap from ship to ship, but that’s no matter; the Dothraki are a spirited bunch, and can often drink even the ironborn under the table. They like the finger-dancing, too, and take to it with gusto; should one of them lose a finger, he simply roars with laughter and calls for more of the fermented mare’s milk they drink. 

Theon spends many evenings cavorting with the Dothraki or drinking with Lord Tyrion, but he spends more of them with Jeyne. By the time they turn north into the Narrow Sea, he’s memorized every inch of her body. He knows how she likes to be touched, and when she wants him to do something but is too shy to say it, and when she’d rather not do something but is too shy to say that, too. She grows bolder with time, slowly finding a voice to tell him when she does or doesn’t want things, but in the meantime, he tries to listen to her body language, and not just the words coming from her mouth. 

Some nights they just lie there and talk; some days, too, when the seas are calm and the men can do without him for a few hours. They talk a lot about the past, and only a little about the future. It’s so uncertain, the future; though they sail on Westeros with dragons and a fearsome army, that’s no guarantee that all will go according to plan. Theon doesn’t want to think about what happens if things go awry, and in truth, he’s sometimes afraid to think about what will happen even if things go well. If they do kill Euron, if Asha does become Queen of the Iron Islands and he serves as her right hand man...what does that mean for Theon? And what’s more, what does it mean for Jeyne?

The men who were with Victarion oft refer to Jeyne as Theon’s woman, but now and then someone will call her his salt wife. In truth, Theon has not even broached the subject with Jeyne, because some part of him fears that if he  _ does _ ask her to be his wife, rock or salt, she’ll say no. She may love him, but love does not mean marriage. With Arya, the last known Stark, supporting Daenerys’s claim, the North will likely pass to her, and what if Jeyne chooses Winterfell over the Iron Islands? He can’t blame her for that. Winterfell was her home, and can be again. Why should she come to live with him on Pyke? 

And then, of course, there’s the question of if she  _ did _ want to marry him, would she be his rock or his salt wife? His heart says his rock wife, his lady in truth and mother to his heirs, but the iron lords will not like that. A rock wife has always been an ironborn, save in rare instances when an alliance with the greenland was necessary. If Asha is made queen, then her nieces and nephews will be her heirs, and every lord on the Iron Islands will be clamoring for Theon to marry their daughter or sister. He knows he could never love another woman the way he loves Jeyne, but what if Asha wants him to marry one of their daughters to secure the loyalty of the men around her?

And that may change Jeyne’s answer, too. Maybe she would accept being his rock wife, but not his salt wife, which the green lords view as little more than upjumped mistresses. Maybe she would see it as an insult. 

They’re nearing Dorne when he asks his sister about it.

“Your rock wife?” Asha repeats in amusement. “Well, of course she would be. If that’s what you want, of course.”

His heart skips a beat. “You don’t...want me to marry some...Codd or Ironmaker or Drumm?”

“I would  _ never _ make you marry a Codd,” Asha says flatly. “I’ll never make you marry anyone you don’t want to. Why should I ask of my brother what I will not do myself?”

His shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you, Asha.”

“And anyway, I’m rather fond of Jeyne,” she continues. “I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t make her my sister for true.”

“If she even wants to be my wife,” he mutters.

“Theon, don’t be stupid. She thinks the world of you. She’d be honored to be your wife.”

He hesitates. “Aye, but...what if she wants to go home more? North, to Winterfell, with Arya?”

“Theon,” Asha asks levelly, “when you came back to Pyke, did it feel like home?”

He considers her. “Well...not really, no.”

“Exactly. It wasn’t the same, because you found a better home at Winterfell, and you’d changed. It will be much the same for Jeyne. She has found a home here with us, roving around the world, and going back to Winterfell won’t be the same for her, just as it won’t be the same for you. Her father is dead, Sansa Stark is missing...what is left at Winterfell that makes it her home?”

As usual, his sister speaks with the sense he lacks when these thoughts race through his mind. But even so…

“Just  _ ask _ her,” she huffs when she sees the uncertain look on his face. “No use overthinking it when you could get a simple answer from her now.”

“Not yet,” he insists. “Not until things are more...certain.”

Asha rolls her eyes. “Very well.”

He rolls his eyes, too, and starts to head back to the  _ Sea Bitch,  _ but Asha calls after him. She’s flipping her dirk in the air when he turns back to her, avoiding his eye. 

“How do you know,” she asks with determined nonchalance, “that you love Jeyne?”

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what made you realize that you don’t just like her and like being with her, that you  _ love _ her and don’t want to live without her?”

“Well, I…” He trails off, realization dawning. “You love Daenerys.”

Asha scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You  _ do! _ ” he gasps. 

The point of Asha’s dirk meets the wood of the ship; she yanks the dirk free, scowling. “I don’t  _ love _ her. I like her very much, and I enjoy fucking her, and I think she’s a good person who can make the world a better place. That doesn’t mean I  _ love _ her.”

“It doesn’t,” he agrees with a smirk. “But you do anyway.”

Her whole body sags. “I do. I think. I don’t know. I’ve never... _ loved _ anyone before. Not like this.”

Theon leans against the side of the ship, facing his sister. “Do you think about her all the time? When you imagine your future, is she part of it?”

Asha nods miserably.

“Yeah. That’s love.” He hesitates. “I don’t want to state the obvious, but…”

“She and I can’t be together? I know.” She rests her chin in her hands, staring across the water at the  _ Balerion. _ “She has to marry some green lord who’s probably never made a woman finish before. She can’t marry the Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“That’s true,” he allows. “You can’t exactly get sons on her.”

“No one can get sons on her. She’s barren.”

That surprises him. “Then how’s she going to restore the Targaryen dynasty?”

“I don’t think it’s about restoring it so much as...I don’t know. Fate. Destiny. That sort of thing.” Asha shrugs. “She just wants to make the world a better place. You don’t need sons to do that.”

“No,” he agrees, still confused, “but who will rule after her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll have a kingsmoot. It doesn’t matter. The point is I’m in love with a woman I can’t be with.” Asha buries her face in her arms. “I hate this feeling.”

“It’s not a pleasant one,” he agrees. “But, look, it doesn’t have to be  _ all _ bad. You’ll both fight alongside each other until the other is queen, right? And when we leave Westeros and make for the Iron Islands...you don’t have to  _ stay _ there. You can visit King’s Landing from time to time.”

“‘From time to time’ isn’t the same thing as  _ all _ the time,” Asha pouts...but she does lift her head. “I suppose you’re right. Better than nothing.” 

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Fuck no. What do I look like? Don’t answer that, actually.” Asha straightens up. “I need to think. Go to your wife.”

“Fuck you.” 

He does go back to his cabin, though, where Jeyne is sprawled over the bed and sleeping. She wakes when he climbs in beside her, slinging her arm and leg over him. “How’s Asha?” she asks groggily.

“In love with Daenerys.”

“That’s nice,” she mumbles, already falling back asleep. 

“Jeyne?”

“Hmm?”

He hesitates. Does he ask her now? Does he let her fall asleep? 

“Never mind. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, and then her breathing is deep and even and he knows it’s too late to ask her. 

.

A Dornish envoy greets them southeast of Sunspear, led by Princess Arianne Martell. With her are her bastard cousins, the Sand Snakes, Olenna Tyrell of Highgarden, and a bald eunuch that Jeyne recognizes instantly as Lord Varys. Princess Arianne and Lady Olenna pledge the fealty of Dorne and the Reach, and offer to refresh the fleet’s stores with the wealth of Sunspear. The Iron Fleet makes a brief detour to take on fresh food and water; all told, they stay less than three days, for Daenerys is eager to land on Dragonstone and rally her forces from there.

While they are gathered at Sunspear, Lord Varys finds Jeyne with a relieved expression, taking her hands in his powdered ones.

“My dear, it is  _ so good _ to see you alive and well,” he says sincerely. “I feared the worst when I heard your ship did not arrive.”

“Where was I supposed to go?” she asks him. “You can tell me now, surely?”

“You were to land in Pentos, my dear, where my good friend, Illyrio Mopatis, was to take you in.” Varys’s eyes flit over to Theon. “I trust you have been well since I last saw you?”

“Very well,” she assures him. “Theon and Asha Greyjoy boarded my ship, but it was alright, because Theon and I knew each other. I have been their guest.”

“I see,” Varys giggles.

Theon doesn’t know why, but he mislikes the man. Maybe it’s because he put Jeyne on a ship to stay with his friend and didn’t tell her where she was going. “May I ask, Lord Varys,” he speaks up now, “why were you sending Jeyne to stay with your friend? What benefit did you reap from this?”

Varys arches an eyebrow. “Only a weight off my shoulders.” He turns back to Jeyne. “One of Littlefinger’s girls was giving me information. She was his confidante, in many ways. But when Littlefinger found out, he gave her to Joffrey. She was very fond of you, you know. She wanted to get you out of there. So when I saw an opportunity, I took it. I wish it could have been sooner, my dear, I truly do. But there was no getting you out of there while Littlefinger was strutting about the place, and even after he left, the queen’s eyes were everywhere. I hope you can forgive me for not acting sooner.”

Theon would like to punch the man. Two years Jeyne was locked in a room, where all she did was wait for men to use her. How could it take two years for him to help?

But Jeyne takes Lord Varys’s hands and assures him, “There is nothing to forgive, Lord Varys. You risked so much to help me when so many others wouldn’t. I will be forever grateful for that.” 

Varys smiles at her. “You are a dear, Lady Jeyne. And now, I have news for you. Your friend Sansa Stark is alive and well. She has retaken Winterfell and the North with her younger brother, Rickon, and their bastard half-brother, Jon Snow. The Northern lords have named her Queen in the North.”

Theon gapes at the other man. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Varys confirms.

Theon is glad to hear that Sansa, Rickon, and Jon are all well...but… “Bran was not with them?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. He has not been seen since...well. Since you took Winterfell,” Varys says slyly. 

Theon ignores that. “And Jon...is he not a man of the Night’s Watch? I thought the Night’s Watch did not concern themselves with matters of the realm.”

“Apparently he died and came back to life.” Varys shrugs. “This is what my little birds tell me. Perhaps he can tell you a different story.”

Theon shares a puzzled look with Jeyne. “He...died?”

“As I said, this is what my little birds tell me. Whatever the case, he is no longer Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and neither the Northerners nor the Night’s Watch have taken his head yet, so I assume his watch has ended, as they say.”

“What does King Tommen say?”

“Very little, these days,” Varys says wryly. “To make a rather long story short, Cersei destroyed the Sept of Baelor with Queen Margaery and many of the nobles of court inside, King Tommen threw himself from his window in his despair, and now Cersei reigns as Queen Regnant. Forgive me, my lord, my lady, but I must be returning to the queen.”

“Of course,” Jeyne says, sounding in a daze. “Thank you, Lord Varys.” As soon as the other man is gone, she turns back to Theon. “Did you hear all that?”

“I did,” he says, but he still isn’t sure that he heard correctly. “Cersei doesn’t surprise me, if truth be told, but…”

“Sansa’s a  _ queen _ now?”

“And Rickon is not king.” Theon shakes his head. “I don’t understand. He was with Bran when I left.” 

“He said...no one had seen Bran since you took Winterfell. And the Boltons are the ones who killed everyone. Do you think they killed Bran?

“No,” he says honestly. “If they killed Bran, they would have killed Rickon, too, but Rickon’s alive. If somebody else killed Bran, they would have said something about it.”

“You think so?”

“When I killed those boys,” he makes himself say, trying not to think about it, “I did it because...I wanted people to know that Bran and Rickon were dead. That Winterfell and the North belonged to me. If Bran was killed by someone, they would have his head on a spike for everyone to see.”

Jeyne shudders. “So what happened to him?”

“I don’t know. Might be Maester Luwin had them separated after the Boltons took Winterfell. Better to keep Robb’s heirs apart, so if one died, there would still be another.” But it still doesn’t make sense. If anyone was sheltering Bran, surely they would have come forward by now, and he would be King in the North. Even if he had died, or is missing, Rickon should be king. Sansa is a woman, and the North has never been ruled by a queen before.

_ Then again, neither have Westeros or the Iron Islands, yet here we are. _

“Sansa, Daenerys, Asha, Cersei,” Jeyne says, ticking them off on her fingers. “We had the War of the Five Kings, and now we’ll have the War of the Four Queens.”

He had not even thought about that, but she’s right. The Lannisters had not accepted Robb as King in the North, so they will not accept Sansa as its queen, either. And even when Daenerys defeats Cersei, will she be content to let Sansa continuing ruling on her own? What was it Tyrion had said?

_ “What if everyone starts demanding their independence?” _

_ “The others are free to ask as well.”  _

Ask, yes...but does she have any intention of granting that request?


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting close to catching up with where I currently am in the story, so updates might be a little slower until I can light a fire under my ass.

The last leg of the journey seems to pass in the blink of an eye. One minute they’re passing into the familiar waters of the Stepstones, the next, they’re pulling into the mouth of Blackwater Bay. 

The island is small as far as islands go; it’s about the size of Saltcliffe, maybe only a little bigger. But a great mountain that was once a volcano looms over the island, and built on the face of the mountain is an imposing castle. High, sharp angles and narrow towers, this castle was not just built to be a home for the refugee Targaryens: Dragonstone was built to be a fortress fit for dragonlords.

Daenerys sends some of her Unsullied ashore, to make sure that there are no enemies awaiting them. If Varys speaks true, then Stannis Baratheon and his family are long dead...but Cersei may well have granted Dragonstone to an ally in the meantime, or may have a trap waiting for them.

Neither are true, as it turns out; the Unsullied report that the castle is abandoned save for a handful of servants, and the only people on the island are the farmers and fisherfolk who live there, and they have no desire but peace.

Asha commands the fleet to surround the island lest anyone try to attack. She keeps her own ship, the  _ Balerion, _ and the  _ Sea Bitch _ close to the castle.

Theon helps Asha command the fleet, directing ships and overseeing the Unsullied and Dothraki getting onto land. This last one is tricky, since the Dothraki have their horses, and few of them speak a language other than their own. 

Jeyne goes on ahead with Arya; he had urged her not to wait around for him, and he knows she’s eager to see the castle. He sends some of their things along, but he himself doesn’t head up to the castle until nightfall, when Asha declares it a job well done.

Unsullied guard the great bronze gates; beyond them is a long, winding bridge that takes them over a moat. Theon sees now why Dragonstone is so impenetrable; no enemy could pass through the moat to get up to the keep, and even if they bypassed the gate and the took the narrow path, anyone could see them coming from the keep and have ample time to prepare. 

Theon’s legs, unused to walking on land for so long, are sore by the time they reach the keep itself. Their cousin Quenton greets them, and shows them to Great Hall where they may feast with the others.

Theon does not know if the provisions from the feast were from Stannis Baratheon’s own stores or if they were gifts from the islanders, but he is too hungry and tired to question it; he takes a seat at a bench beside Asha, dipping his bread in the trencher.

Jeyne finds him there, her hair sleek and shining as it always is after she washes it. “How did it go?”

“As well as it could. The ships are surrounding the island, and there are enough men on them that we can all sleep soundly tonight. How did you find the castle?”

“It’s very…” She hesitates. “Targaryen.”

He smiles at that. “Too much fire and blood?”

“Something like that. You look tired. I’ll draw you up a hot bath; it will be all ready for you when you’re finished eating.” She kisses his cheek and leaves to draw his bath.

Asha shakes her head. “Theon, if you don’t marry that woman, you’re the biggest fool who ever lived.”

“I  _ want _ to marry her, but--”

“You don’t think she wants to marry you? You truly are a fool.”

He sighs. “Sansa is back at Winterfell.”

“So?”

“So, she and Jeyne were always close. What if Jeyne wants to live with her?”

“Theon.”

“What?”

Asha enunciates slowly and carefully. “You. Are. An. Idiot.”

He throws a piece of bread at her. “How are things going with  _ your _ lady love, then?”

Asha purses her lips. “Point taken.”

.

After dinner, Theon finds his way to the room set aside for him and Jeyne. She does have a hot bath drawn and waiting for him, and not only does she help him undress, but she gets on her knees and washes his hair and back for him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he insists, but she just smiles. 

“I like doing it.”

“You could join me.”

“I’ve already had a bath.”

“You don’t need to wash.”

“I think I might get dirtier if I get in the bath.”

The water  _ is _ embarrassingly grey. He scrubs until his skin is pink, and once he’s dried and dressed he helps Jeyne empty the tub. This done, he climbs into bed beside her.

“I don’t like this castle,” she confides in a whisper. “I heard one of the servants say that the Targaryens used blood magic to strengthen the walls here.”

“And Old Nan used to say wildlings drank blood from Northern children’s skulls.”

“Well, maybe they do.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t think wildlings drink blood out of Northern children’s skulls, and I don’t think the Targaryens used blood magic to strengthen the walls. I think that was just a story to make them sound more threatening.”

“I don’t know.” She toys with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Queen Daenerys hatched petrified dragon eggs from her husband’s funeral pyre. Twice in her life, she has walked into flame and walked out unscathed. I’m willing to believe her ancestors worked a little blood magic here and there.” 

She has a point. Daenerys seems capable of a great deal. But surely if all Targaryens were like her, she wouldn’t have had to cross the world to take back the throne they lost. 

“Well, then,” he says, “you should sleep all the more soundly tonight, knowing you’re in a fortress built with blood magic.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d sleep sounder on the  _ Sea Bitch. _ ”

“So would I,” he admits. “But it’s a very nice room. Nice bed. Nice company, if I do say so myself.”

She tries, and fails, to hold back a smile. “Perhaps. I still don’t sleep well in strange beds.”

He considers this. “I bet I can put you to sleep.”

“How-- _ Theon!” _ she laughs when he dives under the covers. 

.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s to a heavy rain falling outside. They’d left the shutters open to feel the cool night air, but it’s cold and drafty now; he closes the shutters and stokes the fire before climbing back into bed. 

“Is it raining?” Jeyne mumbles.

“Aye, it’ll let up soon.”

.

It does not let up soon. 

If anything, the rain only falls harder, with thunder and lightning to boot. By nightfall, the storm surrounds the isle, rain lashing against the walls and windows and the Stone Drum booming with the sound of thunder. 

Theon begins to understand Jeyne’s unease. There is a sinister quality to the fortress on a stormy night like this; the carved dragons seem alive, writhing with each bolt of lightning, and the gargoyles on the parapets create monstrous shadows. 

Theon, Jeyne, and Arya gather in Asha’s room, whiling away the night with Dornish red, courtesy of the Martells. The topic, inevitably, turns to the war ahead of them.

“Cersei won’t last long,” Asha declares. “With the North standing as an independent kingdom and the Vale supporting them, and with Dorne and the Reach declaring for Daenerys, Cersei controls less than half the seven kingdoms.” 

“And then it’ll be Daenerys against Sansa,” Arya points out. 

Asha sips her wine. “Not if Sansa kneels.”

Arya’s nostrils flare. “She shouldn’t  _ have _ to kneel. Robb didn’t.”

“Robb didn’t kneel because a bastard boy who had no business being on the throne cut off your father’s head,” Asha points out. “Daenerys is not only a just and capable ruler, but she is the rightful heir and she has dragons besides.”

“What are you saying?” Jeyne asks, frowning. “You don’t think Sansa should be Queen in the North?”

“Obviously I am all for women being queens of sovereign nations. But I am also a practical woman. Sansa should be Queen in the North if that is her wish and the wish of the Northerners, but how well do you think Daenerys is going to take that? The Iron Islands are nothing to the crown, a pittance that she’s granted us. But the North? That is no mere pittance. The North is the biggest of the Seven Kingdoms. Daenerys will want the North. And even if she didn’t, even if she decided to let the North remain independent, though I cannot for the life of me see why she would, think how quickly the rest of the realm would unravel in her hands. Everyone would see that she had granted the Iron Islands and the North their sovereignty, why not the Vale, or the Riverlands, or the Stormlands, or whatever bloody kingdom wants their independence.” 

Theon had not thought of it that way before, but his sister makes a point. The Iron Islands breaking away from the realm means next to nothing, but for a kingdom as big as the North…

Arya looks crestfallen. “Then...it  _ will _ be a war?”

Asha hesitates. “Depends on how stupid your sister is.”

“She’s  _ not _ stupid,” Arya says hotly. Theon finds that amusing, since it was all Arya ever called her before. 

“Then there are one of three things she can do. The first is to bend the knee. Makes Daenerys happy, means there’s no bloodshed, but it will mean your sister giving up her crown. The second is to offer aid to Daenerys in exchange for sovereignty, as I am doing. This will be harder for your sister than it was for me, though. She will need to send all her armies south and offer her unflagging devotion. The third is to do as the Dornish did, and offer marriage in place of conquest.”

“Marriage?”

“Daenerys will need a husband,” Asha says bitterly. “You have a younger brother, don’t you?”

Theon chokes on his wine.  _ “Rickon?” _

Jeyne and Arya seem equally bemused. 

“But he’s a  _ baby. _ ”

“I pity any woman who marries him.”

He’d be about ten now. Perhaps the years have made him better behaved...and then again, perhaps not. It would be years before anyone expected the couple to produce a child...which may be just enough time for Daenerys to name a successor. Maybe she would even name a Stark as her heir, thus joining the two kingdoms.

Maybe there is a way for Sansa to remain Queen in the North after all.

“You think it’s a good idea,” Jeyne realizes, looking at Theon.

“It’s not a  _ terrible _ idea. It’s the most bloodless way for both queens to keep their crowns, though it would be better if Sansa offered the Northern armies  _ and _ marriage.”

Asha nods. “That would be better.”

Arya shakes her head. “I just...can’t imagine Sansa as queen. She always wanted to be, but…”

“She always wanted to be  _ Joffrey’s _ queen,” Jeyne corrects. “She wanted to be married to a handsome king and wear pretty dresses and have lots of beautiful babies. Being Queen in the North, being the  _ ruling _ Queen in the north, is...different.”

“I still don’t understand why she’s the queen and Rickon’s not the king.  _ Not _ that I’m complaining,” Theon adds quickly when he sees his sister’s face. “I just can’t imagine the Northern lords choosing a woman to lead them.”

“Well, I’m glad they did,” Arya says loftily.

“It’s a new era, baby brother. Men want women to take charge, so it seems.”

A knock on the door makes them look up. Asha goes to answer the door, where Daenerys’s handmaiden stands on the other side. She murmurs a few words to Asha, who smiles and turns back to the others.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” she says cheerfully. “Feel free to stay as long as you like; I don’t expect I’ll be back tonight.” She blows a kiss and leaves them.

“Whoever Daenerys marries, I hope he knows he’ll have to share her affections,” Jeyne giggles.

“Maybe she  _ should _ marry Rickon, then,” Arya jokes. “He wouldn’t care. I think he’d even like Asha. 

“I can’t imagine Rickon as Prince Consort, though,” Jeyne says, still giggling. “Does he still have Shaggydog, I wonder?”

“They could keep Shaggydog in the dragonpit with the dragons.”

“The dragons would be terrified of him.”

Arya’s face falls a little. “I miss Nymeria.”

Jeyne’s face falls, too. “I miss Lady.”

“Alright,” Theon says sternly, “that’s enough of that. We’re not going to be sad tonight.”

“What else is there to do?” Arya demands. “It’s raining so hard we can’t leave the castle.”

“You want to be sad because you’re bored?”

“Being sad is better than being bored.”

“We could play a game,” Jeyne suggests.

“What sort of game?”

She considers. “Hide-and-seek.”

Arya scoffs. “We’re too old for hide-and-seek.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

.

Hide-and-seek in a big, unexplored castle after a considerable amount of wine is actually quite fun. 

They make a rule that they have to stay in Sea Dragon Tower so they won’t be  _ completely _ lost, and another that, since there are so many occupants in the castle and they aren’t sure which doors lead to where, they will not hide behind any closed doors. 

Not that they don’t accidentally alarm some of the castle’s other guests. They bring their wine with them when they hide, and have an unfortunate habit of shouting when they’re found. A few people poke their heads out of their rooms with disgruntled faces, and one of Daenerys’s own bloodriders comes to find out what’s making so much noise. After that, they decide to move to the Stone Drum, which has fewer occupants and is already so noisy because of the storm.

It’s Theon’s turn to seek now. He knows he heard someone in the front hall; when this yields nothing, he moves to the throne room. 

He has not yet been inside the throne room, but he takes a moment to admire it now. Though the braziers are low, there is still enough light for him to see the huge, black, jagged rock ahead of him. There is a seat carved into it, and Theon can only imagine how imposing any king or queen would look sitting in that seat. 

He wonders who the first Targaryens were to plan to conquer Westeros. Did it truly begin with Aegon? Or were the seeds planted much further back? He has said it before, but Dragonstone is no mere home. It is a fortress built for warlords, and warlords it drew forth. This throne is not the throne of one running away; this is the throne of one who expects others to kneel before them. 

Theon moves forward slowly, ignoring the monstrous shadows formed by the storm. They’re just shadows, he wants to tell himself...but some part of him cannot help remembering Jeyne’s words from last night. Perhaps this castle  _ was _ built with blood magic. It was at the very least built by Valyrians, who were not like other men. 

_ Perhaps whatever magic gives them their beauty and makes dragons bend to their will lives on in the walls of this place. _

He moves around the back of the throne and shouts when he comes face to face with Jeyne.

“Gods, woman!” he curses. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Not a very good seeker, then, are you? Come here, I want to show you something.”

Begrudgingly, he lets her take his hand and pull him into a corridor behind the throne room. A stone staircase curves up and spirals, but Jeyne only takes him up a few steps before they enter a chamber still lit from the previous occupants. A huge wooden table lies before them, oddly shaped and painted.

“It’s a map of Westeros,” Jeyne tells him excitedly. “Aegon and his sisters plotted their conquest here. Look.” She pulls him towards the table. The end facing them is the North, he realizes after a moment. There are figurines carved like wolf heads gathered around Winterfell, and falcons, too. “Here’s the North,” she says, the tips of her fingers skimming over the length of the table. “The Vale. The Stormlands. The Crownlands. And us.” She taps a raised spot on the map, barely big enough to give a splinter, surrounded by dragon heads.

Theon has heard of this table before, but in truth, he had forgotten about it. Maester Luwin taught him about it. Aegon and his sisters used it to conquer the Seven Kingdoms...and now Daenerys will use it to conquer them, too.

Jeyne hops up on the table, knocking aside a few of the figurines. “Let’s fuck on it.”

He can barely contain his mingled amusement and desire. “You want to fuck on the table Aegon the Conqueror used to plot his conquest?”

“Don’t you?”

It occurs to him that yes, he very much does, and moves to stand between Jeyne’s legs. She kisses him, smiling and reaching for the laces of his pants; his hand is pushing her dress up to her hip when the door opens.

They both look up, frozen as Tyrion Lannister enters the room. He regards them with a raised eyebrow; Jeyne slides off the table, hiding in mortification behind Theon.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Tyrion says dryly. 

Theon is too embarrassed to snap off a witty retort. He clears his throat. “We didn’t think...we didn’t  _ mean _ \--”

“Yes, yes, you thought the castle was asleep and you wanted to fuck on Aegon’s Painted Table. I understand the impulse,” Tyrion says in that same dry tone. “You wanted to have your conquest where Aegon planned his.”

Jeyne bursts into giggles and immediately tries to stifle them.

Tyrion’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But you might want to fix the markers before you leave.”

Jeyne reaches to right the dragonheads, suns, roses, and krakens they had knocked over, but she pauses halfway through straightening them. “Why are there krakens around Casterly Rock?”

Theon turns to look, and indeed, he sees that kraken figurines are clustered around Casterly Rock.

Tyrion clears his throat. “You weren’t strictly supposed to see that.”

But now Theon is curious. “But why  _ are _ there krakens around Casterly Rock?”

Tyrion sighs, walking down the length of the table. “Because my sweet sister derives all her power from our house’s legacy, and what is our house most famous for?”

“Gold,” Jeyne says at once.

Tyrion nods, coming to a stop before Casterly Rock. “If we can take Casterly Rock in Daenerys’s name, she will control the gold mines, not Cersei. Cersei will lose what little influence she has, and she’s losing more by the day. Her only hope of success now would be to hire a sellsword army, but if she has no gold…”

“...she can’t hire anyone,” Theon realizes. 

“Precisely.”

“And the Dornish and the Tyrells,” Jeyne says, indicating King’s Landing. “They’ll be sieging the city?”

“That is the plan. Cut Cersei off from her gold, from her supplies, leave her with a city full of starving people. If she doesn’t give in and bend the knee, the people will make her.”

It’s a good plan. An excellent plan, in fact. There may be some battles, but they will be mere clashes compared to Aegon’s Conquest. Dorne, the Reach, the Crownlands, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands will bow to Daenerys, leaving…

The North. 

“And what about the North?” Jeyne asks.

Tyrion shrugs. “That is entirely up to Sansa.” He pauses. “She’s a smart girl. Woman. Queen. I am sure she will make the right decision. Two years of living with Cersei should have taught her how  _ not _ to be a queen.”

“But what if she doesn’t want to give up her crown?”

“Nobody  _ wants _ to give up their crown,” Tyrion points out. “But her ancestor, Torrhen Stark, did it to spare his people.”

Jeyne’s voice is cold. “So if Sansa doesn’t bend the knee, Daenerys will kill her and all the Northmen?”

“I don’t  _ want _ Sansa and all the Northmen to die,” Tyrion tells her. “I  _ want _ this conquest to end as bloodlessly as possible. We all do. Daenerys will take no pleasure from attacking a kingdom she means to call her own. But you understand, she cannot just let Sansa go on being Queen in the North. The others will want to be their own kingdoms, too.”

Privately, Theon cannot help thinking that maybe that would not be such a bad thing. The seven kingdoms are enormous as one group; almost too big for one person to manage. That is why each kingdom has its own warden or paramount. And dragons. There had been dragons to knit the kingdoms together in the old days. There are dragons again now, but only one rider. Aerys, Joffrey, Tommen, now Cersei...none of them could hold the seven kingdoms together. So how will Daenerys?

_ She is stronger than them, and better. _

Still…

“So what do you intend to do?” Jeyne asks Tyrion. “What’s your bloodless way of convincing Sansa to put aside her crown?”

“That, I’m still trying to figure out,” he admits. “But I know Sansa is a reasonable person, so I’m not terribly worried. It’s Cersei I’m worried about.”

That surprises Theon. “But she can’t hope to win.”

“You don’t know my sister,” Tyrion says wryly. “It’s a good plan I’ve come up with, make no mistake, but I learned from my father, as did my sister. But what’s more, she is dangerous because she is desperate to hold onto her power. A good ruler would know when to call it a loss. They would know when to give up their power. Cersei will never give up her power. She will hold onto the crown even if it means killing every man, woman, and child in Westeros.”

“But surely with the city surrounded and no allies to help her…”

“There is no such thing as ‘surely’ when it comes to my sweet sister.” 

Footsteps sound from the stairs outside, and then Arya is standing in the room, an annoyed look on her face. “I’ve been hiding for ages.”

“Not very good at hide-and-seek, then, are you?” Theon quips.

“You’re the one who’s not good at seeking. What are you all doing in here?”

Tyrion clears his throat. “I believe Lord Theon was...seeking Lady Jeyne when I happened to be passing by. They were...admiring the table.”

“Fuck you,” Theon mouths. 

Tyrion just smirks. 

Arya, thankfully, has become too engrossed with the table to notice the exchange. “Is this the table Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys used to conquer Westeros?”

“It is,” Tyrion confirms. “Isn’t it something? Three hundred years ago, and some change, the Targaryens were gathered where we are now, planning to do what no person had done before and unite the Seven Kingdoms.”

Arya walks down the length of the table, admiring it. “How long do you think it will take? For Daenerys to take back the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Fortunately, since most of the country is ruled by one queen, it shouldn’t take long,” Tyrion says. “If we can get Cersei to surrender, most of the Seven Kingdoms will belong to Daenerys. The only one that will not is the North.” He tilts his head, a strange look on his face as he watches Arya. Pensive. Calculating.

Theon doesn’t like it. He can’t say why, only that he doesn’t. 

“Alright,” he says before the conversation can continue, “Arya, since you gave up, you lose this round.”

“I did not  _ give up, _ I was waiting  _ forever _ !” 

“But no one ever found you,” he points out, already making his way for the door. 

“Doesn’t that mean I win?” she demands, following him out of the room. Jeyne is trailing behind them, amused.

“You don’t win if you give up.”

“You win if you hide so long no one can find you, stupid.”

“She’s right,” Jeyne points out. “I think she won this round.”

“Fine.”

While Arya skips off to the throne room to count, Theon and Jeyne climb the spiral stairs until Jeyne pulls him into an alcove built into the wall.

“Not a famous three hundred year old table,” she says, reaching for the laces of his pants again, “but it will serve.”

“Arya will find us,” he points out, though he makes no move to stop her.

“Then you’d better be quick about it.”


	22. Chapter 22

The storm lets up in the early hours of the morning, and they wake to a grey, calm day. Theon sleeps in, tired from the late night game and head aching after the wine. The pounding on his door makes his head ache all the more; Jeyne groans and pulls the furs up over her head, leaving Theon to stumble into his pants and stagger to the door.

It’s Arya, looking much more alert than him. “Can I come in?”

“Why?” he yawns.

“I need to talk to you. And Jeyne.”

Too groggy to think much of it, he lets her in, closing the door behind her and flopping back on the bed so his head will stop spinning. “Arya’s here,” he tells Jeyne, who pulls the covers down to her collar.

“What’s going on?” she asks Arya, her eyes heavy with sleep.

Arya sits at the foot of the bed, a serious look on her face. “Tyrion and Daenerys want me to write to Sansa and ask her to come to Dragonstone and meet with the queen.”

_ That _ makes Theon sit up, and Jeyne, too. They look at each other, surprised.

“When did they tell you this?” he asks, turning back to Arya.

“Just now. Daenerys invited me to break my fast with them.” Arya looks uncomfortable. “I don’t...know what I should do.”

Jeyne tucks the sheet under her arms. “What exactly did they say?”

“They said that they wanted to bring the North into the fold as peacefully as possible, and Sansa would be more likely to treat with Daenerys if her sister was writing to her.”

“Did they say if they wanted her to bend the knee?” Theon asks, remembering the conversation with Tyrion last night.

“Yes, but they would be open to hearing her terms and meeting them. They don’t want a war.” Arya bites her lip. “But...I don’t want Sansa to bend the knee. I want Daenerys to be queen, of course, but I want Sansa to be queen, too.”

Theon considers this. The Northerners are stubborn; this much, he knows from experience. They’ll not take kindly to being made to kneel to another southerner, if Sansa does bend the knee. But they’ve had their fill of fighting, too. And winter is coming. Maybe they will choose peace, even if it means bowing to another Targaryen. 

Or maybe Sansa can offer terms that mean she can keep her crown and Daenerys will be satisfied with six kingdoms instead of seven. 

“What did you say?” he finally asks.

“I said I would think about it. They seemed to understand.” Arya draws circles in the furs beside her. “But...what  _ should _ I do?”

“I think you should write to Sansa,” Jeyne says bluntly. “She’ll want to know you’re well and safe, for one thing, and for another, asking her to come here means giving her and Daenerys a chance to talk things through, instead of meeting each other in open battle. Daenerys is a good queen, but Sansa doesn’t know that yet. You don’t even have to ask her to bend the knee; just ask her to come and meet with Daenerys to discuss her reign.”

“I agree,” Theon says. “They can come to terms, whether that’s Sansa bending the knee or Daenerys leaving the North alone, rather than declaring war.”

“At the very least,” Jeyne says, “it would mean getting to see Sansa again, sooner rather than later.”

“That’s true,” Arya allows. 

“And you should add something, so Sansa knows it’s really you,” Theon tells her, remembering a letter Sansa had written to Robb a long time ago. “Something only you would know or say.”

Arya considers this. “That is a good idea. Thank you.” She leaves them, closing the door behind her.

Theon flops back onto the bed, rubbing his still-aching head. “I knew Tyrion was planning something.”

Jeyne lies down beside him. “It makes sense though, doesn’t it? To have Arya write to Sansa?”

“It does,” he agrees. “But I wonder if Sansa will come.”

“You don’t think she would?”

“I’m not sure. Look what happened last time the Starks came south,” he points out. “Look what happens  _ any _ time Starks come south. They have a habit of turning up dead, or prisoners.”

“Daenerys isn’t Aerys or Cersei, though.”

“No,” he allows, “but Sansa doesn’t know that. Even if she believes the letter came from Arya, why should she believe that Arya wrote it of her own free will?”

“All the more reason for her to come south and free her sister.”

“True.”

Jeyne reaches out, stroking his hair. “When’s the council meeting?”

“Afternoon. Still a few hours away.”

“Good. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Me too.” They pull the covers up around their faces, blocking out the light while they try to sleep off last night’s wine.

.

In the afternoon, after they’ve washed and changed into clean clothes, Theon and Jeyne join Asha, Arya, Daenerys, Tyrion, Varys, Lady Olenna, Princess Arianne, Missandei, and Grey Worm in the chamber with the painted table, where they discuss their next move. Asha and Princess Arianne are in favor of striking King’s Landing hard and fast. 

“I am not here to be queen of the ashes,” Daenerys says firmly. 

Tyrion explains to the others the plans he had more or less laid out for Theon and Jeyne last night. The others agree that it is a good plan, and after deciding that the ironborn and Unsullied will set sail in three days’ time, Daenerys dismisses them.

“Lord Tyrion,” Arya says as soon as they are out the door, “I wrote the letter like you asked.”

He seems surprised, but he takes the scroll from her. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He reads it then and there, his eyebrow arching when he gets to the end. “‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?’”

“It’s something my father used to say,” Arya explains. “So she’ll know it’s really from me.”

Tyrion gives her a small smile. “Thank you, Lady Arya. I’ll give it to the maester at once.” He rolls up the parchment and leaves them, heading for the maester’s tower.

“You know it’ll mean you have to stay here?” Asha asks gently. “They’ll want you to be here when your sister comes.”

“I know,” Arya says glumly. “But I’d rather see my sister again than capture Casterly Rock.  _ I suppose. _ ”

She and Asha walk on ahead, discussing the impending capture while Theon and Jeyne trail behind. 

“I think,” Theon says slowly, “you should stay with Arya.”

Jeyne glances at him, her face impossible to read. “Oh?”

He threads his fingers through hers. “It’ll be safer here. And you can see Sansa again.”

“That’s true. I’d like to see her again.” She squeezes his hand. “But I’d like to be with you more.”

He brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re well protected by dragons and a fortress built by blood magic.”

She laughs. “Hard to argue with that logic.” Her smile fades. “But you will be careful, won’t you? You’ll have to pass the Shields to get to Casterly Rock, and if your uncle and his men are still there…”

That truthfully had not occurred to Theon; what with last night’s goings-on and spending most of today in bed, he hadn’t given much thought to the journey to Casterly Rock, only the battle that will take place there. 

“Asha will think of something,” he says with more confidence than he feels. “Besides, we have more ships than Euron, and Unsullied to boot.”

“I know, but--”

He stops in his tracks, pulling her towards him. “I’m not letting any man, be it my uncle or some Lannister prick, stop me from seeing you again, do you understand?”

She flushes, looking pleased. “Yes.”

He kisses her soundly, enjoying the feeling of her melting into his arms. 

“You two are disgusting!” Arya shouts. 

.

Theon and Asha spend most of the rest of the day making preparations for the journey to Casterly Rock. It will be a long one, so they stock up on food and fresh water. They’ll be escorting Princess Arianne back to Sunspear so she can muster the Dornish army and lead them to King’s Landing; from there, they’ll sail around Dorne, bypass the Shields if at all possible, and land at Casterly Rock.

“What about Euron?” he asks his sister. “If he’s still in the Shields…”

“He may be. Or he may be back on the Iron Islands. Either way, I think we should go the long way around the Arbor, as he’s sure to have eyes on the Redwyne Straits, and keep west until we’re close to Lannisport.” She eyes the map before her. “Though what I wouldn’t give to sail straight to the Shields and have it out with him then and there.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Daenerys,” she says simply. 

He shakes his head. “A few months ago you would have leapt at the opportunity to face Euron with worse odds than we have now. Now you’re going to avoid him because of Daenerys?”

“Meeting him in open battle would be foolish.” She sits at her table, pouring herself a cup of wine. “Even with the numbers on our side, men will die and ships will burn. Most of Euron’s men would follow me if he died, but many would flee. We might incur too many losses to effectively take Casterly Rock. And you want us to go from one battle to the next? We’re ironborn, but we’re not immortal, baby brother.”

“I think it’s the right choice, I’m just surprised, is all.” He sits opposite his sister. “When  _ do _ you plan to face Euron?”

“I don’t think he’ll give us a choice,” she says wryly. “He won’t be happy when he learns that a woman took over his fleet and is allied with the queen he meant to marry. He’ll come after us, I’m sure. Most like at Casterly Rock, but he may set a trap for us on the journey south. Hell, he might even have a trap set for us on the journey  _ to _ the Rock. I don’t know. I’m not planning anything, because Euron has a way of undoing the best laid plans. But I tell you this: when and wherever he  _ does _ attack, I’m going to make sure it’s the last thing he ever does.”

.

As fate would have it, Asha doesn’t have long to wait.

Theon wakes that night to shouting down the corridor.

“What is it?” Jeyne mumbles.

“I don’t know.” He staggers to the door, poking his head into the corridor.

Asha’s haphazardly buckling her belt as she hurries past, her hair standing up. “Get dressed,” she tells him. “Ships on the northeast side of the island caught fire.”

“Caught  _ fire _ ?”

“I don’t know what happened, just hurry up.”

He does, withdrawing into the room and rooting around for his clothes.

“What’s going on?” Jeyne asks again, sitting up.

“Ships caught fire.”

“Caught  _ fire? _ ”

“I don’t know, I just have to go. Stay here.”

He dresses quickly, buckling his swordbelt before he leaves. Asha is waiting outside his door; together, the siblings hurry down to the beach, a blend of ironborn, Unsullied, and Dothraki accompanying them. They load the boats with men and row out to the ships, squinting around the torchlight to see the cause of the fire.

Three ships have been damaged; they’re not beyond repair, but they will not be able to make the journey to Casterly Rock.

“What happened here?” Asha demands of the men on the surrounding ships.

“We don’t know, my queen,” Tom Two Fingers says unhappily. “We didn’t know the ships were on fire until it was too late. When we came above deck, we saw that the men on watch had had their throats slit.”

“And you didn’t see or hear anything? No other ships?”

“No, my queen. It was silent as a grave.”

“Aye, it was silent alright.” Asha turns to Theon. “This was the Crow’s Eye’s work. No one else could have snuck up on our ships like that.”

Theon is a little more skeptical. “Maybe the men on watch were drunk, or asleep, and it was Cersei’s men who set the ships on fire.”

Asha shakes her head. “King’s Landing is southwest of Dragonstone. For anyone to get to this side of the island, they would’ve had to have sailed around the whole island. That means passing half the fleet. And Cersei doesn’t have a navy, not since her Master of Ships took her war dromonds and fled to the Stepstones.”

The evidence  _ is _ compelling, but still… “Why didn’t he finish the job, then?”

The color drains from Asha’s face. “Maybe he’s about to.” She turns to her men. “I want every ship armed and ready for battle.”

“Yes, my queen.”

.

They spend a sleepless night preparing for a battle that never comes. The men are on their guard, watching the aptly named Blackwater Bay, but nothing happens. 

Asha gives up when dawn breaks and they see that they are truly alone on the water. She leaves guards on the ships and orders the night watch to be doubled before she and Theon return to Dragonstone, both in sour moods from the long night of waiting and nothing to show for it.

“What happened?” Daenerys asks when they return to the castle. She is dressed as if for battle; behind her, Arya has a cloak and swordbelt buckled over her night shirt and linen pants, and Jeyne has a robe wrapped around her nightgown. They must have been up all night, watching from the castle. 

_ For all the good it did anyone. _

“Three ships caught fire and the men on watch had their throats slit, but nothing ever came of it,” Asha says unhappily. “It was Euron, it had to be.”

“Should we give pursuit?” Daenerys asks with wide eyes. “If he attacked…”

“He wants us to give pursuit,” Asha explains, pulling off her gloves. “While the bulk of the fleet is off chasing him, he takes out the ships left behind and captures Dragonstone. And you.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Daenerys says coldly. “My dragons--”

“--are exactly what he’s after.” Asha’s voice softens. “He wouldn’t be attacking if he didn’t have a plan.”

Daenerys considers this. “So you think we should stay here?”

“If he attacked once, he’ll attack again. At least we can be prepared this time. Better than walking right into a trap of his own making.”

Daenerys turns to Grey Worm. “What do you think?”

The Unsullied commander gives a tight nod. “We have the advantage here, my queen. If our forces are separated, he has the advantage.”

Daenerys nods, turning back to Asha. “Very well. You think he’ll attack again tonight?”

“If not tonight, then the next. I’ve doubled up my men on watch.”

“I will send some of my men as well,” Daenerys decides. “The sooner we can face your uncle, the sooner you can claim the Iron Islands.” She leads the way back into the castle, the others following. Theon reaches for Jeyne, resting his arm over her shoulders as they head back to their room. 

“Were you up all night?”

“How could I sleep knowing you were out there?”

He’s touched by that. He’d have preferred she slept through the night rather than stay up waiting for him, but her concern for him makes him love her even more than he thought possible. 

.

They sleep all morning and well into the afternoon. Before the sun has even set, Theon and Asha are on their respective ships, ready for whatever the night may bring. 

But the night brings nothing. They wait all night with the ironborn, Dothraki, and Unsullied on their guard, but there are no fires, no attacks, not a single sign of an enemy in the water.

When they make their way back to shore in the morning, some of the men seem disgruntled at having wasted their time, and though she will not say it, Theon knows his sister feels a bit foolish. What if the fire was an accident set by their own men? What if the men whose throats had been slit had gotten into a fight, or a quick-thinking captain had killed them himself to shift the blame onto an enemy who was never there?

But Asha is still convinced it’s Euron.

“He’s holding back on purpose,” she insists as they make their way up to the castle. “Making it look like we worried for nothing so our guard will be lower tonight.”

“Asha,” he starts gently, “what if--”

“Oh, don’t!” she snaps. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining things.”

He doesn’t say anything else, because he knows his sister doesn’t want to hear it right now. She’s angry and embarrassed, and anything he says will only be salt in the wound. 

When he troops back to his room, he finds Jeyne sitting at the window, head resting against the sill from where she fell asleep, watching the fleet. He carries her gently to the bed, and though he sets her down carefully, she wakes anyway.

“Theon?” she murmurs, eyes still closed.

“I’m here.”

“Euron…?”

“Never showed up. I don’t know if he was ever there to begin with.” He kisses her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“Of course he was there,” she mumbles. “Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean...he’s...not there.” She does fall back asleep, but her words have left a niggling doubt in the back of his mind. It certainly seems like the fires were an accident...but then, wouldn’t Euron make it look that way? He’s a cunning man, cunning enough to survive a war that had taken two nephews, to seduce his brother’s wife, to kill his other brother, take a throne that does not belong to him, and use his disgraced brother to sail across the world to woo a woman for him. And he might have done it, had Victarion not been convinced to take Daenerys for himself. 

_ He’ll never forgive Asha for taking the Iron Fleet and allying with Daenerys.  _

But why the attack and subsequent night of silence?

_ A warning? A test to see the strength of our forces? A distraction? _

Dimly, he remembers another fire, a long time ago. A catspaw had slipped into Winterfell and set a fire in the library so he could kill a sleeping Bran, and he would’ve gotten away with it had Lady Catelyn not been there.

But it’s been a day and a night, and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of Euron, so perhaps it isn’t a distraction. 

_ Unless it isn’t Euron we’re looking for. Unless it’s his men, hiding in the ranks of the thousands of ironborn gathered around the isle.  _

He makes a beeline for the door, leaving Jeyne and heading for his sister’s room. When he finds it empty, he changes course for Queen Daenerys’s chambers. An Unsullied guard stands at her door, and when Theon asks to speak to both queens, the man steps inside to relay the message. A moment later he reappears, holding the door open for Theon.

Asha and Daenerys are inside, neither one looking happy, and Theon wonders if he’s interrupted a fight. Asha is sitting by the fire with her arms folded over her chest and Daenerys is standing by the bed, but they look at him with an irritated expectancy. 

“The fire was set by Euron’s men,” he says. “Even now they may be among our ranks.”

Asha furrows her brow. “What makes you say this?”

“The fire was a distraction. There are thousands of men in our fleet, and most of them are strangers. When the ships caught fire, I’m willing to bet some men leapt into the water to save their own skins. No one would think twice about pulling men from the water after a fire, so no one would realize--”

“--that they were already in the water,” Asha finishes, eyes wide. 

“Now they’re on our ships, maybe even on the island.”

Daenerys glances between the two siblings. “But to what end?”

“Killing Asha and me, for a start,” he points out. “And capturing you. It may be he intends to force a marriage on you. Or he may be humiliated by the loss of his fleet and your choosing his niece over him, and he’s thrown in his lot with Cersei instead. She’s as cunning as he is, and she’d make him her king in a heartbeat if he delivered you and your dragons to her.” 

“Then what’s taking him so long? I was in the castle last night, you and Asha were with the fleet…”

“Too many eyes,” Asha says, getting up and pacing. “It can’t have been that many men. And none of our men saw anything, and none of the men killed alerted anyone...which means…”

“They swam a long distance,” Theon finishes. 

Asha turns to Daenerys. “Isn’t there an island near here? Another island, I mean?”

“Driftmark,” Daenerys says at once. “The seat of House Velaryon. Lord Varys tells me their lord is a six-year-old child, and most of his forces perished in the North with Stannis Baratheon.” 

“I’d wager there’s a new Lord of Driftmark,” Asha says wryly. “Can a man swim from one island to the next?”

“I’m not sure,” Daenerys admits. “But it would certainly explain why no one saw anything.” She thinks for a moment. “I will fly to Driftmark and see if Euron’s ships are gathered there.”

“What? No,” Asha says, throwing a frantic look at Theon. “You can’t go to Driftmark alone--”

“I won’t be alone,” Daenerys says indignantly. “I will have Drogon, and Rhaegal, and Viserion.”

“And Euron will have spears and arrows,” Theon points out. “The dragons may not come to harm, but it would only take one arrow to kill you.”

“Fine, then I will take Asha with me,” Daenerys says without hesitation. 

Asha raises her eyebrows. “You want to take me?”

“Unless you’d rather I take somebody else,” Daenerys says wryly.

Asha shakes her head. “No, no. I’ll go.”

“That’s what I thought. Have your men ready; if we do see Euron’s fleet, we can circle back to Dragonstone and launch the ships. My dragons can do a great deal of harm to wooden ships, but I mislike the thought of facing a whole army without another at our backs.”

“As do I,” Asha tells her. “I’ll have them make ready.” She turns to Theon. “You’ll have command of the fleet, baby brother.”

The thought fills him with terror. “ _ I _ will?”

“Don’t look so afraid,” she laughs. “If Victarion could lead the Iron Fleet, you certainly can.”

“Victarion is dead.”

“Ah, well, it will only be for a few hours,” Asha says nonchalantly. “You won’t have time to be mutinied.”

Theon sincerely hopes she’s right. 


	23. Chapter 23

She meets Daenerys on the Dragonmont, upon which the dragons have been roosting. Asha has seen the dragons plenty, but as she climbs the slope of the mountain, she wonders if they have seen enough of her to trust her?

The smaller two, the green and gold, regard her curiously, but the black comes eye to eye with her, opening his mouth and roaring so loudly she nearly topples back down the mountain.

“Drogon!” Daenerys scolds, giving him a smack on the head. Watching the short woman chastise her dragon as if he were a naughty pet both amuses Asha, and reminds her why she admires the other queen so fiercely. 

“Hold out your hand,” Daenerys advises. “Ungloved, so he can smell it properly.”

Asha mislikes the idea of holding out her bare hand to a dragon that was roaring at her just a moment ago, but she does, trying not to show fear as she raises her palm.

Drogon regards her with something like suspicion, and then slowly moves forward, sniffing her. One of his nostrils is bigger than both of her hands combined, but he sniffs her for a long moment before letting out a shuttering sort of croon. 

“He approves,” Daenerys says, climbing up onto his neck. “Come on.”

Asha moves around to Drogon’s neck, moving lightly, but he doesn’t seem to notice her presence at all. She climbs up behind Daenerys and, not seeing anything to really hold onto, she wraps her arms around the other woman’s waist.

“You ever done this before?”

“Ridden a dragon? Of course.”

“I mean ridden a dragon with a passenger,” Asha says, not liking the way Drogon shifts beneath her.

“Well. No. But how hard can it be?”

“Wonderful, we’re both going to die.”

“Nonsense; the dragons will catch us if we fall.”

Asha isn’t sure if Daenerys is joking or not, and she doesn’t have time to ask; Daenerys calls something in Valyrian and the three dragons open their wings, leaping off the edge of the Dragonmont and letting the wind catch them and lift them into the air.

Asha had thought sailing was the best thing in the world, and in many ways she still prefers it...but nothing compares to flying. The castle below looks like a child’s dollhouse, the ships little more than toy boats. There are pinpricks that she assumes are people, and then there is nothing beneath her but glittering sea. 

Rhaegal and Viserion fly on either side of their brother, screeching to each other in their alien tongue. Sometimes one of them will dip down to skim the surface of the water, pulling up fish and kicking up a spray of seawater. 

In what feels like no time at all, an island forms on the horizon. This must be Driftmark, the ancestral seat of House Velaryon and the first allies to the Targaryens. As they get closer, black and gold sails come into view.

_ Euron. _

“That’s him!” she shouts in Daenerys’s ear over the whistling of the wind. She leans over, counting the ships. There are forty of her uncle’s ships, and another forty docked by the shipyard, and she’s willing to bet that her uncle has claimed those ships for himself, too. 

_ But does he have the men to sail them? _

“Are those all his ships?” Daenerys shouts back. 

“Looks like it!”

“Then let’s get rid of a few.” Daenerys screams,  _ “DRACARYS!” _

Asha watches in awe as fire rains down upon Euron’s fleet. She can hear men scream, but she can’t see them through the fire and smoke. Daenerys wheels Drogon around, and he leads the dragons back to Dragonstone. 

The day is growing grey and cloudy, and what Asha at first thinks is Drogon growling turns out to be a rumble of thunder. A storm is coming, and with it, the gods.

The Dragonmont looms ahead of them, dark and imposing against the stormclouds, but the fleet gathered before the island is a welcome sight. Most of the ships are full, though more are in boats rowing from the shore. Daenerys urges Drogon lower, until Asha can see her brother standing on the deck of the  _ Sea Bitch. _

“Euron has about eighty ships!” she shouts as they pass over, raising her voice to be heard over the rain. “Maybe less after the dragons!”

She sees Theon nod just before he goes out of view, and then she hears him shouting commands to the other men. 

The dragons wheel around the Dragonmont, crying out to each other before they head back to the fleet. The first ships are already rowing, the  _ Sea Bitch _ at their head, and Drogon leads them all into the stormy waters.

The sky is dark as night when they finally encounter Euron’s fleet off the shores of Driftmark. They do not even see the ships coming at first because they do not use any lantern light; Asha only sees them because a bolt of lightning illuminates the sky and sea. 

The first ships clash with a creaking, splintering groan, grapnel hooks sailing through the air and gripping the longships. The dragons fly overhead, breathing fire over the ships in the middle of the fleet. Men shout and curse, leaping into the water or on other ships, while the ships in the back try to row away. For many of them, it’s too late; they collide head-on with the ships caught ablaze.

The rains are falling hard, though, and the flames do not last long. Even when the dragons release fresh fire, the rain douses it in minutes.

The Iron Fleet forms a ring around Euron’s fleet, penning them in. The Summer Islanders crouch on the bow of the  _ Saffron Swan, _ firing arrows while the ironborn closest to Euron’s fleet board the longships, swords and axes swinging. The ships are so intertwined now, and there are so many of Asha’s men on Euron’s ships that Daenerys does not dare fire the ships again. Besides, with the rain falling as heavily as it is, the flames would do little and less.

And then, a shout rents the air.

_ “ASHA! ASHA! COME HERE, NIECE!” _

Asha cranes her neck to see the source of the noise.

Euron is on the deck of the  _ Sea Bitch, _ pointing a knife at the throat of a man in his other arm.

_ Theon. _

“He has my brother,” Asha tells Daenerys. “Let me down.”

Drogon wheels around, skimming low; Asha lets go of Daenerys’s waist and makes the drop to the  _ Sea Bitch, _ landing in a crouch. 

“Let him go!” she shouts at her uncle, already reaching for her axe.

Euron grins. “Or what?” The point of his blade presses against Theon’s neck. Her heart slams against her ribcage, her teeth set on edge as she watches a trickle of blood make its way down her brother’s neck. 

“It’s me you want!” she calls, trying not to let her fear show...but how can she hide it? She knows that Euron has no reason to keep Theon alive. If anything, he has every reason to kill him. And he will, if she doesn’t think fast. “Stop hiding behind my brother and face me like a man, Crow’s Eye.”

Euron’s grin widens. “Come now, niece. You’re going to fight me one way or the other. What does it matter if I--”

But he stops short with a cry, because an arrow has sprouted from the hand at Theon’s throat. 

Asha whirls around and sees Arya standing at the top of the stairs, Theon’s goldenheart bow in her hands. 

She turns back to Euron, who has released Theon to grip his bloodied hand. Theon grabs the knife that was pointed at his throat and stabs Euron in the thigh; the older man cries out again, staggering. 

Asha throws her axe, and is pleased to watch it land neatly in Euron’s head, splitting his skull in two. He sinks to the deck with a heavy thud, blood seeping from his head onto the deck. 

Though thunder is still rumbling in the distance and the rain is still falling, Asha can feel the men’s silence. She walks calmly to her uncle, pressing her boot into his back while she yanks her axe free of his head. She keeps her boot on his back as she looks around at his men.

“Well?” she shouts. “Did Euron give you everything he promised? Did he give you dragons, and the Seven Kingdoms, and riches beyond counting?”

_ Mutes, all of them, _ she thinks as she looks around her,  _ though some of them are muted by their own shame, and not Euron’s blade. _

“Euron is dead. Victarion is dead. You’ve run out of kings.” She points to the sea. “Save that one. The Drowned God. He’ll welcome you into his hall. I’ll send you gladly.” She points to the skies, where the dragons are circling overhead. “But she’ll welcome you too, and I promise it will be a warmer, drier, and less bloody welcome than any you could receive in the Drowned God’s watery halls.” She lowers her arm, tucking away her axe. “So what’ll it be? Follow my uncle to the Drowned God’s hall? Or follow me to a long life?”

The rain begins to let up, shafts of sunlight poking through the clouds. Slowly, the men begin to pound their swords and spears and feet upon the decks, taking up the cry one at a time until the sea is booming with it.

_ “ASHA! ASHA! ASHA! ASHA!” _

It is the sweetest sound Asha’s ever heard.

.

Most of Euron’s men do choose to follow her, and name her their queen. Some choose to follow Euron to the bitter end. Asha personally sends them to meet the Drowned God.

She learns from Nute the Barber that Euron had killed her uncle Aeron by tying him to the prow of the  _ Silence  _ beside some girl from the Shields. They’d hung there until their corpses had rotted away into the sea; now all that’s left of them are the ropes that had bound them in place.

She learns, too, that the men Euron had sent to Dragonstone have already been dealt with.

It was the Cleftjaw who figured it out,” Theon tells her. “He saw some men who looked lost when the call came to board the ships, and when he asked what ship they were headed to, they named the burned ones. He brought the captains forward and asked if they knew the men. They said they did not. The fools confessed all.”

“And where are they now?”

“In the Drowned God’s watery halls.”

“Good,” she says with no small amount of satisfaction. She turns next to Arya, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time. “And what precisely were you doing with the fleet?”

“Saving Theon’s life,” Arya retorts. “He’d be dead if it wasn’t for me, so don’t try to lecture me about how I should have stayed in the castle.”

Asha considers this and then nods. “Well, you’ve got me there.” She hugs the girl. “And thank you. Truly.”

.

The battle delays their leaving for Casterly Rock by a couple days, but they work quickly to repair and salvage what ships they can. On the second day, Asha leads one hundred and fifty ships to the Narrow Sea, to Sunspear, and to Casterly Rock. 


	24. Chapter 24

Theon captains the  _ Sea Bitch _ with a bittersweet taste in his mouth. On the one hand, Euron is finally dead and Asha is Queen of the Iron Islands. On the other, it will be months before he sees Jeyne again. 

He knows that shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. A siege is no place for her, and she’ll be much safer at Dragonstone. He wouldn’t feel right about bringing her. What if something happened?

But in the nearly two years since they reunited, they’ve never been apart. Even when they stayed on different ships, they were still in shouting distance of one another. In the last few months, though, they’ve slept in the same bed every single night, and they’ve never spent more than a few hours apart. Being across a whole country is unfathomable to him.

“Cheer up, baby brother,” Asha tells him. “You’ll see her again soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Alright, enough moping,” she declares. “We’re going to drink with the Martells.”

They’ve offered the  _ Noble Lady _ to Princess Arianne and her cousins, as the merchant cog is the nicest in the Iron Fleet (save the  _ Esgred, _ which they’d left behind for Jeyne and Arya...just in case) and therefore fittest for a princess and her cousins. The Martells in question are drinking Dornish red in the galley when they board, and they offer a warm welcome to their captains.

The night is exactly what Theon needed, a distraction from his grief. He has met Princess Arianne a time or two before and always liked her conversation, but now he finds himself getting to know her three cousins, too. 

Obara, the eldest, is a burly woman with a hard face and harder muscles. She has a wit so dry that Theon can’t always tell when she’s joking, much to the amusement of those around him.

Nymeria, called Lady Nym, is enchantingly beautiful, and Theon soon finds that her quiet demeanor is not from shyness, but rather, because she prefers to observe those around her over joining in the conversation. She does not miss a thing, and though her sisters jest about the number of knives she keeps on her at any time, he has a feeling that her ears are the most dangerous part of her.

Tyene, the youngest of the three, appears chaste and demure, which her sisters credit to her mother being a septa. Though she plays the innocent, Theon is sure that she’s far from the pious girl she pretends to be. 

They have other sisters, they tell the Greyjoys, but they were too young to join them. The youngest four are all daughters of the same mother, but the oldest four all have different mothers.

“And that’s accepted in Dorne?” Theon asks, curious. He’s heard tales, of course, but then again, the tales about the Dornish are almost as wild as the tales about the wildlings. 

“By the laws of Westeros, Sands cannot inherit,” Obara tells him. “But bastards are not frowned upon in Dorne the way they are in the rest of the country.”

“Did your father ever marry?”

“No. He never planned to. He was the youngest child, and both of his siblings had children of their own. Now, of course, Elia and her children are dead, and both of Doran’s sons are dead, so it’s on Arianne to continue the Martell line.”

“A joy beyond measure,” Arianne says wryly. “You are lucky, Queen Asha, that you have a brother to continue the line for you while you rule the Iron Islands.”

“I am lucky to have my brother for many reasons,” Asha says, reaching over to wrap an around Theon’s neck and use her other hand to knuckle his head. “His willingness to sire children among them.”

_ “Stop,” _ he complains, finally breaking free of his sister’s grip. He reaches up to smooth his hair. “I am happy to take on the arduous task of siring children. For the good of my country, of course.”

“A noble sacrifice,” Asha teases with a grin. “Your queen thanks you for your valor.”

“Is it true that ironborn men can have more than one wife?” Tyene asks.

“It is,” Asha tells her, pouring more wine for herself. “Though it’s not quite like it sounds. A man can only have one  _ true _ wife; her children will be his heirs and bear his name. That’s his rock wife. A salt wife is…”

“A concubine,” Theon fills in. “Sort of. They’re still married, but a salt wife is not ironborn and does not have the same status as a rock wife, and her children will only inherit if the rock wife has given no heirs. Houses descended from salt wives are looked down upon.”

“Then what are the children of salt wives, if not trueborn but not bastards?” Obara asks. 

Asha shrugs. “Just people. Captains and oarsmen and priests and whores.”

“You have whores  _ and _ salt wives on the Iron Islands?” Lady Nym asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Whores are the one thing ironborn men will pay for with coin,” Asha says wryly. “A salt wife is still a wife; most men have to keep their salt wives in a different house, as it would be an insult to house rock and salt wife together. Wives and children are expensive to care for, but any man with can buy a whore for the evening.”

“You ironborn are a lusty lot.”

“That we are,” Asha says with a grin. 

.

They drink and talk with the Sand Snakes well into the night. Obara is the first to peel away from the group, clearly tired of their conversation, and Tyene follows not long after. It takes a few moments for Theon and Asha to realize that Lady Nym has also slipped away, at which point they realize it is just them and Princess Arianne.

“I fear we have overstayed our welcome,” Asha says, starting to get up.

But Princess Arianne lays a hand on her arm. “You could stay,” she murmurs in an unmistakable invitation.

Asha looks, for the first time Theon can ever remember seeing her, at a complete loss for words. She clears her throat and swallows before saying, “My lady, I am honored...but I’m afraid I cannot.”

“No? Oh well.” Arianne turns to Theon. “What about you, Prince Theon?”

He ducks his head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but...there is a woman waiting for me to come back to her.”

Arianne raises an eyebrow. “I must say, I am unused to being rejected twice in a row. This is quite a lesson in humility for me.”

“Normally, I would have said yes,” Asha offers. 

“As would I,” Theon adds quickly. 

“Well, that’s comforting,” Arianne says dryly. “Ah, well. I’m sure there’s a backed up sailor somewhere around here.”

Theon and Asha excuse themselves as politely but quickly as possible, red-faced as they head back to the  _ Black Wind. _ Neither of them speak until they are in Asha’s cabin, pouring cups of ale.

“God, who  _ am _ I?” Asha laments. 

“A woman in love,” Theon says, drinking deeply.

Asha drops her head in her hand. “There was a time when I would’ve said yes without hesitation.”

“I know.”

“But she offered and all I could think about was--”

“Daenerys.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, drinking. “This is pathetic.”

“Being faithful is pathetic?”

“I mean, what is there to be faithful to? There haven’t been any promises made, we’ve never even put into words this...thing between us.” Asha looks distraught. “What if I’m just an amusement and she’s fucking a Dothraki while I’m gone?”

“I seriously doubt that,” he reassures his sister. “I’m sure she cares about you just as much as you care about her.”

“She’s never said anything.”

“Have you said anything to her?”

“...no.”

“Well, there you have it.”

Asha drops her head in her hand again. “Why am I like this.”

“I don’t know, but I’m truly enjoying watching you,” Theon tells her. “I have never seen you this out of sorts about anything, let alone a  _ woman _ , before. It makes me feel a lot better about myself.”

“Well, I aim to please.” She takes a sip of ale. “Want to get drunk and cry?”

“Always.”

.

They deliver Princess Arianne and the Sand Snakes to Sunspear and take on fresh water before heading west and rounding the heel of Dorne’s boot; from there, they pass through the Redwyne Straits and past the Shields before reaching Casterly Rock.

Tyrion had warned them that the Lannister armies would be prepared; hundreds of cities, villages, and keeps would have seen the fleet and alerted the Lannisters. He had also told them how to impregnate the previously-impregnable fortress.

The brunt of the Unsullied make landfall in the short stretch between Lannisport and Casterly Rock; they march on the keep, drawing most eyes and arms to the eastern walls. No one has ever taken the keep, but the Unsullied will put up a valiant battle while the real siege takes place by sea.

There are archers posted at the seaward walls, firing on the ships. They don’t notice the three rowboats that slip beneath the cliff face and into a hidden cove. Theon and Asha lead the way up two sets of ladders, pushing aside a flagstone to pull themselves up into a castle under siege. There are too many men rushing past them to pay them much mind, and once the rest of the raiding party is above ground, there are too many of them for passing soldiers to challenge. They make their way to the bronze gates, where they lift the bars and let the Unsullied stream into the keep. 

.

The battle is won in almost no time at all. They had known they would be the victors, but even so, the battle had been over in a suspiciously short amount of time. 

“There should have been more,” Grey Worm says when they convene, frowning. “Many more.” He climbs on the ramparts, looking around in confusion. 

Theon looks around, too. There are many dead men, but not enough. Not enough by half.

A soldier on the ground makes a guttural sort of sound, blood trickling from his mouth. Theon crouches down, lifting the man by the front of his tunic. “Where are the others? Tell us and I’ll end your suffering.”

The man gurgles, and it takes Theon a moment to realize what he’s saying.

“The Reach. Highgarden.”

“Thank you.” Theon cuts the man’s throat; he goes limp, eyes closing as the life seeps out of him. Theon cleans his blade on the man’s sleeve and stands, sheathing his dirk. “Highgarden.”

“Fuck,” Asha says, kicking a loose helmet. “Lady Olenna will be there by now, which means--”

“The Lannisters will control the Reach, aye.”

Grey Worm furrows his brow. “How far is Highgarden?”

“Far enough,” Theon says wryly. “And inland. By the time your men march there, it’ll be too late.”

“Do you know what?” Asha says, hands on her hips as she looks out at the bloody fields. “I’ll bet they’ve emptied the mines. Taken all or most of the gold. If they planned this far ahead…”

“They knew we were coming and what we were after,” Theon agrees. “Fuck.”

Asha turns back to him. “Find the maester, if he’s still alive. Have him write to Daenerys and tell her what happened here.”

He nods, heading for the rookery. He had heard ravens cawing earlier, and traces his steps back to the maester’s tower.

Sure enough, a man of middling age with greying hair is hiding out in his tower, tugging at the chain around his neck. 

_ He reminds me of Luwin, _ Theon thinks, and then shakes the thought away. 

“I need you to send a message to Dragonstone. Can you do that?”

“Of course, my lord,” the maester says, getting up on shaking legs. “What message shall I send?”

Theon tells him what to say, and stands over his shoulder as the man writes. He knows that maesters must serve the castle, and not necessarily the lords of it...but Luwin had been faithful to the Starks even while Theon ruled Winterfell, and this maester may have a similar loyalty to the Lannisters. The maester dutifully rolls and seals the scroll before tying it to a raven’s leg and sending the beast out the window. 

“You’re right, by the way,” he says as Theon starts to leave. “About the gold. They’ve taken what’s left.”

“What’s left?” Theon repeats, confused.

The maester nods, tucking his hands in the sleeves of his robe. “The mines are dried out, my lord. Lord Tywin forbade me from telling anyone, of course, but what does that matter now? House Lannister is all but dead.”

Interesting. So House Lannister is not as powerful as it once was. That is something. “So the gold being taken to the queen…”

“Would repay the Iron Bank of Braavos and engage the services of the Golden Company,” the maester confirms. “Though her plans may have changed; I believe your uncle and his men were to escort the Golden Company to Westeros. Without ships, I’m not sure what course of action she plans to take.”

“Did you know her?” Theon asks. 

“I did. I came here just before Robert’s Rebellion. Cersei had little use for me, as she was fond of reminding me. Of course, she married Robert and became queen not long after that. Then I only saw her on the rare occasions she visited Casterly Rock.”

Theon nods. “And what do you think she’ll do if she can’t bring the Golden Company here?”

“Whatever she can,” the maester says bluntly. “She has Tywin’s cunning, and his vindictive nature. While I cannot claim to be privy to her plans, I can say with confidence that this will not be the first time she has a trick up her sleeve. She is not just cunning and vindictive, either; now that all her children are dead, she is desperate. House Lannister is dying and she knows it. The gold is gone and she knows it. Daenerys Targaryen has stronger, better armies, and she knows it. She will be dangerous. Unpredictable. She destroyed the Sept of Baelor to protect her son, and now he’s dead. What do you think she will do now?”

Theon feels a chill run down his spine. “Dorne and the Reach were supposed to lay siege to the city...there will be women and children inside, innocents…”

“Pawns. That’s all they are to Cersei,” the maester tells him. “She had a maid’s hand chopped off for stealing when she was but a child. When Robert got bastards on a serving woman, she had the twins killed. These were mere slights. Imagine what she will do when the crown she has worked for her whole life is threatened.”

Theon considers him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I serve Casterly Rock. You and your sister currently hold Casterly Rock.”

Theon frowns. “I held Winterfell once, and the maester served me...but he was serving the Starks in secret.”

“I do not know what to say to that,” the man says honestly, “but I can assure you I do not serve the Lannisters in secret. Who is there left to serve? Lord Tywin is dead. His brothers and their children are all dead. Genna Lannister’s sons are Freys and more loyal to their father’s house. Tywin’s children are all that’s left. One of them is Cersei. The second is Jaime, a knight of the Kingsguard who can never inherit. And the third is Tyrion, who serves the queen you fight for. If all goes well, he will become the Lord of Casterly Rock, and it will be him I serve. I have no reason to lie to you, my lord.”

“I hope for your sake you are right.” Theon turns to go. “I want to hear if Daenerys responds.”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester says, but Theon is already out the door. 


	25. Chapter 25

They’re eating breakfast when one of the Unsullied warriors approaches Daenerys, murmuring something in Valyrian. She looks directly at Arya, eyebrows raised. 

“Lady Arya,” she says, “ships with a mermaid sail were seen approaching from the North. Does this mean anything to you?”

Arya’s heart pounds. “The mermaid is the sigil of House Manderly of White Harbor. It must be my sister.” 

Jeyne looks up with wide eyes, the most interested she’s looked in anything since the Iron Fleet left. She’ll be glad to see Sansa again--as glad as Arya will be. 

She’s thought about her sister often these last few years, and even more so now that she knows Sansa is Queen in the North. How different that is from the girl Arya left behind in King’s Landing, the pretty bride-to-be of the prince who dressed well and always remembered her courtesies. Arya wonders what changed.

_ Father, _ she realizes.  _ Father’s death changed everything. _

Eager to see Sansa again, Arya and Jeyne abandon their breakfasts to head down to the dock. It’s a long walk, and by the time they reach the dock, the Manderly ships are already offshore and a boat is rowing towards them. 

“I should’ve changed,” Jeyne laments.

Arya rolls her eyes. “You look fine. Sansa will just be happy to see you.”

“Yes, but she’s a  _ queen _ now.”

“Do you think she’ll make us call her ‘Your Grace’?”

“I don’t think she’ll  _ make _ us, but we probably should, don’t you think?”

Arya doesn’t think that at all, but then, Jeyne was always more mindful of her courtesies than Arya. And Arya has truthfully gotten complacent in the company of Asha, who laughs if anyone calls her by anything other than her name. She tries to be better around Daenerys, but Sansa...well, Sansa is her sister. Doesn’t that make it different? Had Lord Renly ever called Robert “Your Grace”? She doesn’t think so, but she hardly remembers now. And in truth, she was rarely around the king after that business with Lady.

She wonders if Sansa has forgiven her for that. Arya had been so upset about Mycah that she hadn’t really thought about what that day had meant for Sansa. Driving Nymeria away had been hard, but the queen ordering Lady’s death was harder. No wonder Sansa had been cool to Arya. 

But things will be better between them now, Arya’s sure of it. They’ve both grown up since the last time they saw each other, and Sansa will hopefully be just as eager to see Arya as Arya is to see her.

But as the boat gets closer, Arya doesn’t see Sansa’s red hair. She sees men rowing the boat, and an older man she doesn’t know…

And Jon.

Arya’s breath catches as she and her brother lock eyes. He hops out with the other men to push the boat onto shore, and then Arya is running for him and he’s catching her in his arms.

_ He feels like home _ .

Though he’s been at sea for a few weeks now, Jon still smells the same, still feels like the brother who always understood her. When she pulls back to look at him, she sees the same face, but it’s different. Older. More mature.

_ He looks like Father. _

“You’ve gotten taller,” is the first thing out of his mouth.

She raises her eyebrows. “You haven’t.”

Jon stares at her for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. “You’ve gotten taller, but you haven’t changed much else,” he teases. His eyes flit behind her. “Is that...Jeyne Poole?”

Jeyne smiles. “Hello, Jon. It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you.” 

“Where’s Sansa?” Arya asks, glancing back at the ships, as if perhaps her sister is waiting on one.

“Sansa is ruling the North,” Jon answers. “I offered to come in her place.”

Arya’s heart sinks. “Sansa didn’t want to come?”

“It’s like I said, she’s ruling the North. And you know the rule,” he says wryly, “there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“Is it true Rickon’s alive?”

“It is. The Umbers were hiding him from the Boltons.”

“And Bran?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Rickon, Maester Luwin, and Osha last saw him in the Gift, when they parted ways. He was to head beyond the Wall with Hodor and the Reed siblings.”

Arya isn’t quite sure what to make of that. “And did he?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says gently. “I don’t see how they would have gotten beyond the Wall without my knowing about it, but what do I know?” A sad look crosses his face, but before either of them can say anything else, Tyrion and Missandei are leading an escort of Dothraki and Unsullied to the dock.

“Ned Stark’s bastard,” Tyrion greets with a small smile.

“The bastard of Casterly Rock.”

“I’m not a bastard, bastard.”

“Thought all dwarfs were bastards in their father’s eyes?”

Arya is horrified by the exchange, but only until both men chuckle. They move forward, shaking hands. 

“I believe the last time we saw each other was atop the Wall,” Tyrion says.

“You were pissing off the edge if I remember right. Picked up some scars along the road.”

“Yes, well,” Tyrion says, “it’s been a long road, but we’re both still here.” He turns to the older man with Jon. “I’m Tyrion Lannister.”

“Davos Seaworth.”

“Ah, the Onion Knight,” Tyrion says, taking the other man’s hand. “We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay.”

“Unluckily for me,” Davos Seaworth says gruffly.

Tyrion turns to Missandei. “Missandei is the queen’s most trusted advisor.”

The scribe smiles at the guests. “Welcome to Dragonstone. Our queen knows it is a long journey. She appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons.”

“Of course,” Jon says, and he and the other men hand their weapons to the Dothraki. 

“This way, please,” Missandei says, leading them up to the castle.

Arya walks beside Jon as they follow Tyrion and Missandei up the street to the castle. “How is everyone?”

“Everyone is well,” he tells her. “If a bit different. Sansa is...well, she’s been through some things.”

“You mean more than just Joffrey and Cersei?”

“Much more.” He hesitates. “She was taken to the Eyrie, where she saw her aunt-- _ your _ aunt--Lysa Arryn kill herself. Then she was taken to Winterfell, where she married Roose Bolton’s bastard. He mistreated her. The things he did…” He shakes his head. “We fed him to his dogs after the battle. It was still a kinder fate than the one he deserved.”

Arya’s stomach turns. She had no idea it was that bad. People always liked Sansa; they were always gentle and kind to her. This Bolton bastard must have been horrible indeed to treat her sister so. 

_ But he’s dead now, and Sansa is Queen in the North. _

“But is she alright?”

“Aye, she’s alright. Battle-hardened, I’d say, and too smart for her own good. You’d get along with her now.”

That’s some comfort, at least. “And Rickon?”

Jon grins. “Loud. He’s been raised by a wildling woman and the Umbers, and it shows. You’ll hardly recognize him.”

“Why isn’t he the king?”

“It was suggested, but he said that Sansa was the oldest and that defeating the Boltons wouldn’t have been possible without her. He was the one to name her Queen in the North, and the others took up the call.”

Arya is impressed; she hadn’t known Rickon was so forward-thinking. She’s proud of her little brother. “And you?”

“Me?” 

“I heard you were dead.”

“Ah.” Jon looks uncomfortable. “I was. I was betrayed by some of my sworn brothers. Stabbed in the heart. Stannis’s red woman brought me back.”

“The red woman?” Arya repeats, stunned. “She was there? She brought you back?”

“She did. I don’t know how.”

But Arya does. Hadn’t Thoros brought Beric back several times? And he was just a drunk in a pink robe. The red woman was a true priestess. 

_ But she took Gendry. _

_ But she brought Jon back from the dead. _

Reluctantly, she decides to cross the red woman off her list. Saving Jon cancels out taking Gendry, doesn’t it?

“So you’re not Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch anymore?”

“Not anymore. I swore to live and die at my post, and I did. My oath is fulfilled. Sansa came to Castle Black not long after, having fled from Ramsay. She was the one who convinced me to call the banners and retake Winterfell. Rickon joined us then, and once we took back our home, Sansa and Rickon bid me stay. I had nowhere else to go. Until we received your raven, that is.” He tugs her hair. “Now what have  _ you _ been up to, little sister?”

“That’s a very long story, and I’ll tell it in full later. The short version is that I escaped King’s Landing, wandered around the country for a bit, made it across the sea to Braavos, then joined up with Jeyne and Theon.”

_ “Theon?” _ Jon repeats darkly. _ “Greyjoy?” _

“He’s not a bad person,” she insists. 

“He took Winterfell.”

“And spared Bran and Rickon, and left before the Boltons turned on our men,” she points out. “He’s a good person, really. He and Asha have been looking out for me.” 

Jon’s lips are set in a thin line. “If you say so.”

“I do,” she says firmly. 

They’re on the walkway up to the castle by then, and Arya feels the now-familiar sensation of a dragon swooping overhead.

Jon and Davos Seaworth, however, fling themselves to the ground, looking up in shock. 

“I’d say you get used to them,” Tyrion says cheerfully, “but you never really do. Come, their mother is waiting.”

Visibly shaken by the brief encounter, Jon gets to his feet, following Tyrion up to the castle.

Daenerys is sitting on her throne when they enter the throne room; Arya stands a little off to the side, watching as Jon faces Daenerys. Missandei rattles off Daenerys’s many titles; there’s a pause before Jon clears his throat and says, “My name is Jon Snow. I come on behalf of my sister, Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North.”

Daenerys cocks an eyebrow. “Snow? I assume there is a good reason the Queen in the North sends her bastard half-brother to treat with me?”

Jon clears his throat again. “Starks do not fare well in the south, Your Grace. My father, grandfather, uncle, and sisters can all attest to that. As a Snow, I had hoped that perhaps I’d have better luck than them.”

Daenerys presses her lips together. “That is my hope as well.” She shifts in her throne. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I apologize for the crimes my father committed against your family, and I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father.” 

Jon looks surprised. 

“Our two houses were allies for centuries,” Daenerys continues. “And those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North.”

_ She is trying to convince him to have Sansa bend the knee, _ Arya realizes. 

Jon seems to have realized it, too. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” he says gently, “I am here because of something greater than who sits the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrow again. “Greater than the Iron Throne?”

He swallows. “I am here because the Army of the Dead is marching on us.”

“The Army of the Dead?” Tyrion repeats in disbelief. 

Arya glances at Jeyne, who looks just as confused as Arya feels.

“You don’t know me well, my lord, but do you think I’m a liar or a madman?” Jon asks him.

“No, I don’t think you’re either of those things,” Tyrion admits.

Jon turns to Arya and Jeyne. “And you two, you’ve known me since we were children. Do you think I’m a liar or a madman?”

“No,” they say together.

Jon turns back to Daenerys. “The Army of the Dead is real. The white walkers are real. The Night King is real. I’ve seen them. If they get past the Wall, we’re finished.”

“The white walkers?” Daenerys repeats in a toneless voice. “You expect me to believe that the white walkers are real?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Jon says in the same gentle tone as before, “you brought dragons back into the world. Is it so hard to believe other ancient creatures can come back, too?”

She purses her lips. 

“Jon wouldn’t lie,” Arya says, glancing at her brother. “If he says he’s seen them, he has.”

Daenerys considers this. “Alright then. Let us assume that this Army of the Dead is real. Is the Wall not sufficient enough to keep them out?”

“For now,” Jon admits. “But...they’re clever, Your Grace. And one dead man brought south of the Wall was turned into a wight by the white walkers north of the Wall. If they can turn a man from the other side, what’s to stop them from raising every corpse in Westeros?”

Daenerys furrows her brow. “And I suppose you want my help in defeating this Army of the Dead?”

“Well, yes. You have the greatest army in Westeros, if not the world. And you have dragons. Fire is one of the only things that kills the wights. All three of your dragons could destroy thousands of wights in an instant.”

Daenerys drums her fingers over the armrest of her throne. “Forgive me, Jon Snow, but you must understand...I don’t know you. While I I do not think our mutual acquaintances are lying about your character, I find it strange that I requested the presence of Sansa Stark, yet you have come in her stead. Now you are asking me to abandon my war with Cersei and move my whole army north to fight  _ white walkers. _ If I didn’t know any better, it would sound as if you are trying to lead me into a trap.”

Arya knows that isn’t what Jon is trying to do...but it  _ does _ sound that way, now that she thinks on it.

“We have nothing to gain from leading you into a trap,” Jon tells the queen. “Sansa wants Cersei dead, and she’d be glad to help you depose her...once the threat in the North has been dealt with.”

“But how do I know Sansa isn’t the threat in the North?” Daenerys counters. “You say Starks do not fare well in the south, and while I cannot deny the truth behind that statement, I also cannot help but wonder if there is another reason the Queen in the North remains at Winterfell.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Jon says mechanically. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what do you want me to do to prove that I’m not lying?”

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment. “I’d like to see one of these dead men,” she says at last.

Jon stares at her. “You...want to see one?”

“Yes,” she says, now with confidence. “I want to see one of these dead men. Obviously I cannot risk the journey beyond the Wall myself, but surely the former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch can produce one?”

Jon considers for a long moment. Arya’s eyes flit between him and the queen, wondering who will break the silence first.

It’s Jon. “I suppose I could,” he says slowly. 

Daenerys smiles kindly. “If you bring one of these dead men to me, I would be happy to reconsider my stance. Until that time, I am afraid I must continue focusing on the war in the south.”

Jon nods, still thinking. “Very well. There is one more boon I would ask of Your Grace.”

Daenerys cocks an eyebrow. “Another? I’m intrigued.”

Jon clears his throat. “There are three things that kill the wights: fire, Valyrian steel, and dragonglass, which the maesters call obsidian. Fire is not always reliable, and Valyrian steel is hard to find, but Dragonstone is full of dragonglass. If I’m going to go beyond the Wall to catch a wight, I’ll need men and we’ll need to be well armed.”

“And you want this dragonglass?” Daenerys asks, glancing at Tyrion.

“Yes, Your Grace. I’d like to mine it and send it north so our smiths can forge it into weapons.”

Tyrion glances at Daenerys. “And what would you require, to mine this dragonglass?”

“Just Queen Daenerys’s permission,” Jon says. “We have the men and the supplies to mine it ourselves.”

Tyrion considers. “I see no harm in mining dragonglass. It’s not as if we were going to use it,” he says to Daenerys. “But of course, that is only one man’s opinion.”

Daenerys is quiet for a moment. “Very well,” she relents at last. “You may take as much dragonglass as you would like, and you may stay in the castle, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nods, dismissing him. Arya follows her brother out of the throne room, waiting until the doors have shut behind them to speak.

“Did you really see the white walkers?”

“I did,” Jon says, sounding aggrieved. “I fought them. Killed one at Hardhome.”

“You  _ killed _ a white walker?”

“Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

After seeing the things she’s seen, she supposes not. “No. Just...strange to think of them existing outside of Old Nan’s stories.”

“Aye, I wouldn’t believe them if I hadn’t seen them myself,” he agrees. “And I understand why the queen wants to see one, too, it’s only…” He sighs. “It’s not going to be easy.”

Arya considers this. “I want to come with you. When you go beyond the Wall.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re not coming with me.”

“I’m a good fighter,” she argues. “I’ve killed people. I know how to use every weapon out there.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You?”

“Me. I’ll fight you if you don’t believe me.”

Jon’s lips quirk. “Another time, maybe. First let me see to my men, and then we’ll talk, just you and I.”

She smiles. “I’d like that.” She hugs him. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you.”


	26. Chapter 26

The arrival of the Northmen should mean that Jeyne is amongst her countrymen again...but in truth, she feels more alone than ever now that Jon is here. 

Arya has been her constant companion since the ironborn left, but Arya only has time for Jon these days, which means Jeyne has no one. She’s tried talking to the Northmen, but none of them are from Winterfell, and all they have in common is being born in the North. They’re kind enough to her, but there’s little conversation to be had.

Worse still is that Daenerys receives word from Casterly Rock--Theon and Asha have taken the keep, but only because the Lannisters had almost completely abandoned it and sent all their gold east to King’s Landing, but not before stopping by the Reach to capture Highgarden and Lady Olenna.

Daenerys had left with her dragons and most of her Dothraki, leaving only a small garrison behind at Dragonstone. The keep is unusually quiet, and a reminder that Jeyne has very few friends here.

Not for the first time, she wishes she’d gone with Theon. She knows that it wouldn’t be safe with the siege, that even if Casterly Rock had been abandoned, there might still be dangers on the way, but she’s been in unsafe situations before. She  _ was _ a pirate for a while, after all. And she can fight. Maybe not well, but enough. At least she’d be with Theon.

She misses him so much that sometimes it physically pains her. She cries a lot, which she always tries to hide from the others, but sometimes the tears fall anyway. Even with Euron dead, something could happen to Theon, some stray Lannister arrow finding its way to Theon’s heart. And even though taking Casterly Rock had been successful, it will be a long time before she sees him again. Weeks, maybe even months. Jeyne hasn’t been away from Theon since the ironborn captured her ship all that time ago. Even when they hadn’t been talking, they’d been near each other. It feels strange, knowing he’s across the country. Strange, and bitterly sad. 

At least the Summer Islanders have remained at Dragonstone. They keep to themselves mostly, finding the Unsullied a joyless bunch and having difficulty communicating with the Dothraki, but they always welcome Jeyne when she seeks them out. They have remained here, not wanting to risk their own women and children in the siege against the Rock.

“I wish I could’ve gone,” she says to Saraya one night.

The older woman smiles. “There is nothing like a long journey to strengthen the bonds of love. Or so the priests say.”

“How can our love be strengthened if we’re far apart?”

“Because every day that you are not together, you will think of each other. Every day that you cannot hold each other and kiss each other and tell the other that you love them is a day you swear you will do it tenfold when you see each other again. Think how happy your reunion will be. Think how much joy you will both feel when you can hold each other in your arms again.”

“I’d rather not have been parted at all.”

Saraya laughs. “Just so. Well, he’ll be back again, eager for your embrace, I don’t doubt.” She drinks her wine. “Are you going to marry?”

Jeyne flushes. “I don’t know. He hasn’t asked me.” A thought that has been at the forefront of her mind lately. Now that Asha is the uncontested Queen of the Iron Islands, Theon has been named her heir...which means he’ll need a wife to make more heirs for the Seastone Chair. 

Jeyne does not delude herself into thinking she will be that wife. She would  _ like _ to, of course. She’d like to be Lady Greyjoy, a princess by marriage and mother to the future ruler of the Iron Islands. 

But Theon will need a true ironborn wife to bear true ironborn heirs, not a girl from the greenland. 

_ Not a whore. _

She could be his salt wife, though. He could keep her somewhere his rock wife wouldn’t have to see, and take her with him when he went roving. She couldn’t take his name, and neither could their children, but she’d be his, and he’d be hers, in the eyes of the Drowned God and the ironborn. 

But Theon hasn’t said anything about the future to her. Does he even want her for a salt wife? He says that he loves her, but what if it’s just a fancy that fades?

“Well,” says Saraya, pulling Jeyne from her thoughts, “why don’t you ask him?”

Jeyne huffs. “Women can’t ask men here.”

“No? How odd.”

Jeyne doesn’t want to think about her marriage--or lack thereof--anymore. “Did you ask your husband?”

Saraya smiles. “No, he asked me three times before I said yes.”

Jeyne laughs in surprise. “Three times? Why did you say no the first two times?”

“Well, the first time he asked, we had just met. I had gone to Red Flower Vale to serve in the Temple of Love there, and he was a boy who wanted to become a man. The priestess bid me teach him the ways of love. When we lay spent afterwards, he begged me to marry him, as he swore he would never feel this way again. I laughed and told him he would feel this way many times in his life, and to save his proposal for another. He left in the morning, and I thought that was the end of it.” She shakes her head. “We met some years later at a festival. We had mutual friends and spent the evening talking. I was with another man at that time...a man I would later learn to be unkind.” Her smile fades. “But I did not know it at the time. Kokka and I became friends and saw more of each other. I think even then I loved him a little, though I tried not to believe it. The man I was with, though...he believed it, and he grew jealous. He beat me one night; I had to wait until he fell asleep to flee.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jeyne murmurs. She’d had no idea Saraya had been so mistreated. She begins to understand now why Saraya was so patient with her in those early days, when Jeyne had feared everyone and everything. 

“I didn’t know where to go,” Saraya continues. “Many of my friends were friends with this man, and I feared they might not believe me. So I went to the only person I knew was my true friend.”

“Kokka.”

She nods. “Kokka. He took me in without hesitation; he sat up with me and listened to my tale, he gave me summerwine and clean clothes, and when I had fallen asleep, he went to the manse and killed my old lover.” She smiles again. “That was when I knew I loved him.”

“Didn’t he get into trouble? For killing the man?”

“Oh, no. Raising a hand against another is a serious offense in the Summer Islands, and those that have been beaten and their loved ones are allowed to seek revenge. It’s part of why violence is so uncommon in the islands. In Westeros, punishments are doled out by lords and justiciars. But no punishment is as heartfelt as one given by the offended.” She smoothes her dress. “I stayed with Kokka for a while, until my bruises faded and I felt like myself again. One night, Kokka told me he still loved me, and wished to marry me. He promised he would worship me, and I knew he meant it. But though my bruises had faded, my heart was still sore, and it was with great sadness I told him I could not tie myself to another just yet. He was sad, but he understood. We both agreed it would be best if I went to stay with my family in Moluu. Well, I went, and though my heart was gladdened to see my family again, it still ached. I thought about Kokka constantly, night and day, and imagined a life with him. I spent three months with my family, but it felt like three years. At last I returned to Red Flower Vale and went to Kokka’s house. I cried when I saw him at last, and told him I loved him and wanted to be with him.” Her smile widens. “I saw that there were tears in his eyes also, and he asked me again if I would marry him. I finally said yes.”

There are tears in Jeyne’s eyes, too. It’s a very romantic story, and the kind that she’s always liked to hear. She says as much to Saraya, who clucks her tongue and brushes the tears from Jeyne’s cheeks. 

“You will have a beautiful story to tell someday.”

Jeyne scoffs. “I don’t think so.” How would she even tell that story?  _ I was a whore, but he loved me anyway. _

Saraya smooths her hair. “You already do. You grew up together, and parted ways, until fate drove you back together. Theon captured your ship, and you captured his heart. He killed his own uncle to protect you. What is not beautiful about that?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Jeyne mumbles, privately thinking that it  _ is _ a beautiful story. She only hopes it has a happy ending

.

Daenerys and the Dothraki finally return to Dragonstone with good news: not only did they defeat the Lannister army and take the gold, but Daenerys has also called back Theon and Asha. They’re to leave a small garrison behind at Casterly Rock, just in case, while the bulk of the Iron Fleet will blockade Blackwater Bay. They’ll be stopping by Dragonstone on the way, naturally, which means Jeyne will get to see Theon again. It will be some weeks, but at least she knows he’s on the way. 

In better spirits than she was before, she decides to join Arya in the caves where the Northmen are mining for dragonglass. There are wheelbarrows full of the glittering black stone, which does indeed look like glass when held up to the light. They’re going to make swords and knives and arrowheads from the stone, and use those weapons to kill the white walkers. Or so Arya says.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Arya tells her friend, “but there’s proof. Come look.”

She leads Jeyne deep into the cave; Jeyne follows, watching the obsidian-laced walls and ceiling of the cave glitter as the torch passes by. 

Arya leads her at last into a sort of chamber, where spirals, suns, and strange circles are carved and painted on the stone. They mean something, Jeyne is sure, but she doesn’t know what.

“The children of the forest made these,” Arya tells her.

Jeyne gapes, craning her neck to look at all of the symbols. “Children of the forest haven’t been this far south in thousands of years.”

“Eight thousand at least,” Arya agrees. “Maybe longer.”

“And the caves have gone untouched in all that time.” Jeyne leans close, trying to understand the symbols. There’s something that the children were trying to say with these swirling suns and bursts of dots, but what?

“Look,” Arya says, and she draws Jeyne’s attention to a corner of the chamber. There are drawings shaped like people; smaller, child-sized people at the top, and below them, taller figures with rounded heads shaped like helms and lines across their body that might be armor. “These are the children,” she points to the smaller figures, “and these are the First Men.” She points to the taller figures. “And over here…” She walks a few paces to the right, and new figures come into view. These are bigger than the first, and more detailed. Painted all in white, these look like skeletons with flesh just barely clinging to their bones. They have long swords and spears in their hands, and they leer at Jeyne with striking blue eyes.

“The white walkers,” Arya murmurs.

Jeyne swallows. “That’s what they look like?”

“Jon said more or less.” Arya hesitates. “We’re going to go north soon. Him and me. We’re going to go beyond the Wall to capture a wight.”

Jeyne turns to stare at her friend. “He’s letting you?”

“He told me if I could beat him in a fight, he’d let me come.” Arya draws herself up proudly. “I beat him.”

Jeyne shakes her head. “Well, good luck.” She pauses. “I’m going to miss you.”

Arya softens. “I know. I’m going to miss you, too. But we’ll see each other again soon. How long can it take to capture a wight, really?”

Jeyne raises an eyebrow. “You think it will be easy?”

“Not  _ easy, _ ” Arya allows, “but Jon knows what he’s doing, and we’ll have other men with us. And we only need one wight.”

Jeyne shakes her head again. “I wish you good fortune.”

Arya takes her hand. “Theon will be here soon.”

“Only to take on fresh water, and then he and Asha will be on the move again.”

“So go with them.”

“I don’t think they’ll let me.”

“Theon will let you do anything if you ask the right way.”

_ “Arya!” _

Arya only shrugs, smirking. 

Jeyne hears the scrape of boots against stone, and then Jon is standing in the entrance to the chamber, holding aloft a torch. “There you are.”

“I was showing Jeyne the white walkers,” Arya explains.

Jeyne glances at Jon. “Heard Arya beat you up.”

“She  _ beat _ me in a fair fight, she didn’t beat me  _ up, _ ” he protests.

“No, but I could,” Arya tells him.

Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Does Sansa believe in the white walkers?” Jeyne asks, unable to imagine Sansa believing in such a thing. But then, there’s so much she doesn’t know about the other woman now.

“Yes. It helps that there were others who could confirm what I’d seen; wildlings, and a few brothers of the Night’s Watch.”

Jeyne nods, turning back to look at the white walkers. “I’d like to see her again someday.”

“Well, if we’re successful in catching a wight and Daenerys agrees to help us, you might just get to. Of course, nothing’s stopping you from coming to visit anyway...save the man you’re with.”

It’s no secret that even after Arya’s repeated assurances that Theon is a good man, Jon still mislikes the other man. He will never truly forgive Theon for taking Winterfell, and Jeyne supposes she can understand that; taking Winterfell made it vulnerable, and made it easier for the Boltons to move in. 

“Be nice,” Arya scolds her brother.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gruffly, not sound very sorry. “I only...can’t imagine Theon being welcome at Winterfell unless it was to help us defeat the Army of the Dead.”

He has a point there. Jeyne wonders if Sansa and Rickon hate Theon just as much as Jon, or if the other Northmen would even approve of Theon’s presence there. Probably not. 

“Then again, who knows,” he continues at a look from his sister. “There are worse men than Theon in Winterfell.”

“Worse men?” Arya repeats, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The Lord Regent of the Vale.” Jon rolls his eyes. “I don’t trust that man, but Sansa says we need the Vale, and as he’s the Lord Regent, we can’t get rid of him without getting rid of the knights of the Vale.”

“Who’s the Lord Regent?”

“I forget his name...but everyone calls him Littlefinger.”

Time comes to a sudden halt. Jeyne’s heart pounds in her throat. Dimly, she is aware of Arya turning to her with wide eyes.

“Petyr Baelish?” Jeyne asks in a strained voice, but there’s no question about it; there’s only one Littlefinger. 

“Aye, that’s him.” Jon looks at her strangely. “Are you alright?”

“The air is...very close in here,” Jeyne says, tugging at her collar. Her breath is coming harder, in short little bursts. “I’m a bit...short of breath.”

Arya thrusts her torch at Jon and grabs Jeyne by the hand, pulling her friend through the winding tunnels of the cave until they spill out onto the beach. Jeyne takes gasping lungfuls of air, tears streaming down her face.

_ Lord Baelish is in Winterfell. _

Jeyne has truthfully not given much thought to Lord Baelish these last few months. When she first escaped King’s Landing, she thought about him constantly; gradually, those thoughts had faded into flashes of memories of the brothel. She had been so far away from King’s Landing and Westeros by then that he had seemed like little more than a passing memory, a horrible event long since passed. If she thought about him at all, she’d assumed he was in the capital, tending to his small council seat and his brothels.

But no, he’s not just Lord Regent of the Vale now, but he’s also in Winterfell with Sansa.

_ Sansa. _

She doesn’t know. How could she? Jeyne doubts very much that Lord Baelish would tell Sansa about his brothels, or the things he did there. She doubts, too, that he would willingly admit to taking Jeyne to one as a child and taking money from men who wanted to rape her. 

Has he hurt Sansa? Surely not...but one can never be sure with Lord Baelish.

“What’s going on?” Jon is asking, having followed them out to the beach. “Jeyne, are you alright?”

Arya glances at her. “She just had a bit of a shock.”

“I’m fine,” Jeyne lies, wiping the tears from her eyes.

But Jon’s eyes are narrowing. “Do you know him? Littlefinger?”

Arya squeezes her hand. “She does. Or did.”

“Jeyne?” Jon comes around to look her in the eye. His face is concerned. “What do you know about him?”

Jeyne shakes her head, unable to form words.

“He hurt her,” Arya supplies, squeezing Jeyne’s hand again. 

“He hurt you?” Jon hesitates. “Was he...did he…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jeyne manages. 

Jon grips her arm. “Is Sansa in danger?”

“I don’t know,” Jeyne says honestly, pulling out of his grip. “But I don’t think so. Not in the way I was, anyway. She’s...too important.”

Jon shakes his head, muttering a curse. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. But Sansa said we need him.”

“Aunt Lysa’s dead, Littlefinger’s the Lord Regent...my cousin Robin must be the true Lord of the Vale,” Arya muses. “He’s a few years younger than me, so not old enough to rule in his own right yet...but I bet there are other lords in the Vale that could be his regent. Littlefinger will just have to have an unfortunate accident when our paths cross.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “An unfortunate accident?”

“He’s on my list,” Arya informs him. “He has been ever since Jeyne told me about him.”

Jeyne squeezes her hand. “I hope you do kill him. For all our sakes.”

“I don’t know how I feel about my little sister killing a man,” Jon says bluntly, “but I suppose if it means he can’t hurt anyone else…”

“People like Lord Baelish will never stop hurting others if it means they get what they want,” Jeyne says bitterly. 

“But what  _ does _ he want?” Arya asks. “He has the Vale.”

“Why stop there?”

Arya raises her eyebrows. “You think he wants to be king?”

“I think Lord Baelish wants as much as he can possibly have.” Jeyne wraps her arms around herself. She hopes Arya gets to Winterfell soon; the sooner he’s gone, the better Jeyne will sleep at night. The better they’ll  _ all _ sleep.

.

Before long, all the dragonglass has been mined from the caves, and the Northmen are ready to sail for Eastwatch; from there, they’ll go beyond the Wall to capture a wight and bring it back so Daenerys can see.

“You’re still going, then?” Jeyne asks Arya, who nods, unable to contain her excitement.

“I am. One of the men he brought south is making arrowheads for me.”

Jeyne manages a halfhearted smile. “Well, I hope you have an exciting adventure. And that you stay safe.”

“I will, on both counts.” Arya tilts her head, looking at Jeyne. “Theon will be here before too long.”

“He’s weeks away still.”

“And when he gets here, tell him you’re going to come with him.”

Jeyne shakes her head. “What if he says no? What if he says it’s safer here and I can’t come with him?”

Arya considers this. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but if he says no, tell him I gave him this, and then make this face.” She holds her hand palm-up beneath her chin and makes a flat, displeased sort of face.

“What is that?”

“He’ll know what it means. Just. Trust me.”

Jeyne decides to store that away for later. “Alright.”

Arya hugs her. “It will be alright, Jeyne. We’re going on different adventures, but our paths will cross again. I know it.”

Jeyne hugs her friend back. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you are wondering, yes, Arya does tell Jeyne to give Theon the Neutral Face of Displeasure.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is ENTIRELY too saccharine

The journey back to Dragonstone is somehow longer than the journey from it, and Theon breathes a sigh of relief when Dragonstone finally,  _ finally _ comes into view. 

They won’t stay long; just long enough to take on fresh supplies and stretch their legs before heading into Blackwater Bay. He’ll only get to spend a few days with Jeyne--but, as he tries to remind himself, the sooner they can starve out Cersei and make her yield, the sooner the war will end. He assumes that Sansa and Daenerys have come to some sort of terms by now, and if not, they soon will. 

Jeyne is waiting at the dock when they row to shore; he clambers up the ladder and embraces her so tightly he lifts her off her feet, breathing in the lavender and rosemary scent of her.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmurs.

“I’ve missed you.” He finally sets her down, kissing her. 

Asha throws her arms around the couple, making them sway with her as she embraces them. “Ah, I’ve missed this.”

“Interrupting us?” Theon asks dryly.

“Exactly.” Asha kisses Jeyne’s cheek. “I have missed you, though.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Jeyne tells her. She links arms with both the Greyjoys, leading them up to the castle. “I heard the siege went well.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Asha says wryly. “We took the keep easily, but only because it was barely guarded. There wasn’t much for us to do.”

“Daenerys took her dragons and the Dothraki to meet the Lannisters in the field,” Jeyne tells them. “They succeeded, of course.”

“Did Sansa respond to Arya’s raven?” Theon asks.

Jeyne hesitates. “Well...yes, but she sent Jon here, instead of coming herself.”

That surprises Theon. “She sent  _ Jon? _ A bastard? To treat with a queen?”

“Jon said Starks don’t do well in the south. He offered to come, to ask for Daenerys’s help with...well, it’s going to sound mad.”

“What is it?”

She hesitates again. “He says...the white walkers have come back. They’re raising an army of dead and we have to stop them.”

Theon raises his eyebrows, trading a look with his sister. “And...how did that go?”

“Daenerys said she needs proof before she can agree to anything.”

“Smart,” Asha murmurs. 

“So he and Arya sailed for Eastwatch, so that they can go beyond the Wall and capture a wight and bring it back for Daenerys.”

“Arya’s gone?” Asha asks, sharper now. “She believes in this foolishness?”

“Without hesitation. To be fair, I don’t think Jon was lying, either.”

Theon glances at Jeyne. “You believe him, too?”

“You knew him better than I did; would you say he’s the sort of person to lie?”

“No,” Theon allows, “but the Wall does things to you.”

“Does it?”

He hesitates, because he’s never told either woman this story. “Years ago...the day we found the wolves...we’d gone north so Lord Stark could behead a deserter from the Night’s Watch. The man was mad; he claimed he saw white walkers, or the dead, or...whatever it is they are.”

Jeyne’s eyes are wide. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have; we didn’t talk about beheading men in front of ladies.”

Jeyne considers this. “I suppose Jon  _ could _ be mad. He said he’d died and come back to life, which was a bit strange.”

Theon mislikes that. “Alright, he’s definitely mad.”

“He didn’t act like it.”

“No sane man insists the white walkers are back and that he’s come back from the dead,” Theon points out. “And the fact that Sansa didn’t come...something’s not right.”

“And Arya’s alone with him,” Asha says unhappily. “Thank god she can take care of herself, or I’d really be worried.”

“I don’t think he’s mad,” Jeyne says mildly. “But I suppose time will tell.”

.

Daenerys is visibly pleased to see Asha again; she not-very-subtly invites Asha to her council chamber to “discuss strategy,” leaving Theon and Jeyne to dash for their room.

They start undressing before the door has fully closed, and they only stop kissing long enough to tug off whatever clothes are in the way. Theon lifts her when the last scrap of cloth has ben shed, carrying her to the bed.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispers, and then there isn’t anymore talking.

.

They spend hours in their bed, making love and drowsing and kissing and making love again. He’s missed her, and doesn’t want to spend even a moment apart from her tonight. 

“I missed you,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time. He doesn’t get tired of saying it, and she, thankfully, doesn’t seem to tire of hearing it. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

She smiles. “Nor I you.” She rolls onto her side, propping her head in her hand. “Will you take me with you when you go to blockade the bay?”

“Ah, Jeyne...I’d love to, but it wouldn’t be safe.”

“That’s what you said about Casterly Rock, and nothing happened,” she points out.

“There was still a battle,” he counters. “And it might have been worse.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t,” she points out. “And Cersei has no navy, and not much of an army thanks to Daenerys. The Dornish will already be sieging the city; all the Iron Fleet will be doing is blockading. Right?”

“Blockading, and battling if it comes to it.” He reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It’s much safer here, love.”

She makes a face at that. “I’m tired of being safe. All I do is... _ languish _ here. I want to be with you, and I’ve never been unsafe with you before.”

He snorts. “Remember the time my uncle tried to kill you? Or use your blood, I don’t know if he needed to kill you to use your blood--”

“Yes, and you killed him,” Jeyne reminds him. “Every time I’ve been in danger, you protected me.”

“Yes,” he allows, “but me going up against my uncle and the Iron Fleet going into battle are two different things. And I didn’t have a choice with Victarion.”

“Do you not  _ want _ me to come?”

“Of course I do,” he says, and he means it. He would like nothing better than to have Jeyne stay with him. But, “But I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

“Then don’t let it happen to me,” she says simply. 

He huffs, running a hand over his face. “Jeyne--”

“I hate it here. I feel...trapped. Everyone is kind, but I only have a few friends, and I’m not as close to them as I am to you.”

“You’d better not be,” he mumbles.

“It’s all well and good for you, because you’re  _ doing _ something,” she continues. “But I’m...helpless here. I’m safe, yes, but if I wanted to be safe, I would have left the fleet a long time ago and settled down in some green land. I don’t want to be safe, I want to go on adventures with you.”

He can’t help smiling at that. It’s true that Jeyne could have left a long time ago if a life of piracy and adventure wasn’t for her. And she  _ has _ been through some raids and battles, but still…

“We can go on adventures when the war is won,” he offers. “It’s just...this is different from those other times.”

“How is sitting in water and cutting off supplies worse than Asha’s five ships attacking merchants?” she demands.

“Because it’s Cersei Lannister, alright? She’s dangerous, and desperate, which makes her even more dangerous. It can’t be this easy. She has to have some...trick up her sleeve.”

“So what if she does?” Jeyne demands. “I  _ want _ to be there, Theon. I want to be with  _ you. _ ”

He hesitates. It is true that Cersei has no navy, most of her standing army succumbed to dragonfire, and the gold she was going to use to pay the Golden Company belongs to the Dothraki, which means she has to rely on the generosity of her handful of allies...and given the odds, he doubts she has very many. But the maester’s words keep coming back to him. 

_ What do you think she’ll do? _

_ Whatever she can. _

Jeyne sits up, sighing. “Arya said that if you said no, I was to give you this from her.” She holds her hand beneath her chin, making The Face.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs, heart sinking. “The Face of Displeasure.”

“The what?”

He shakes his head. “It’s...something Arya and I agreed to.”

“But what  _ is _ it?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”

She frowns. “Have you been keeping secrets from me?”

“Not like that, it’s…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I made an agreement with Arya when you and I first got together. Anytime I upset you or hurt you or even just disappointed you, she was to give me The Face, and it was my last warning to make things right before she’d give me a good thrashing.”

Jeyne looks surprised and pleased. “You made an  _ agreement _ about me?”

“Arya was very insistent I not ‘fuck things up.’ Her words, not mine.”

Jeyne is grinning now. “Well?”

“Well, since I don’t want to get thrashed, I suppose I’m taking you with me.”

Jeyne squeals, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

“But,” he says, tugging her back to look her in the eye so she understands the gravity of the situation, “if there  _ is _ any danger, I’m going to send you away, alright? I’m going to put you on a ship and send you back to Dragonstone.”

She nods. “Alright.”

He sags in relief. “Good.” He hopes it doesn’t come to that...but just in case, it’s good to have a plan.

.

Theon and Asha spend the next few days restocking the ships and going over Daenerys’s proposed strategy. They’ll sail deep into Blackwater Bay, arranging the fleet by the mouth of Blackwater Rush. Not close enough for trebuchets to do any good, but not so far that any watercraft, even rowboats, will be able to slip through their blockade. Tyrion gives them detailed maps and battle plans from when he’d defended the city against Stannis.

“I defended the city from a seaward attack, so I know its strengths and its weaknesses better than any man,” he declares. “It is therefore of the utmost importance that you stay far away from the city, and have scouts watching the shores on either side. We used wildfire to destroy Stannis’s fleet, and Cersei used it again to destroy the Great Sept of Baelor. Most of the wildfire will be gone, but not all of it.”

“How much?” Asha asks.

Tyrion considers. “Enough to fuck things up, let’s put it that way. Like all fire, wildfire can catch. You’d only need one ship to catch fire for the others to be in danger, and all it would take is a few well-directed arrows to send the entire fleet up in flames.”

“Great,” Theon says sarcastically. He’s starting to regret telling Jeyne she could come. 

“Of course, an attack from land will be difficult with the Dornish and our reinstated allies from the Reach surrounding the city,” Tyrion continues. “Not impossible, of course, but it’s not easy to transport wildfire through the enemy camp. So it’s more likely that if an attack does come, it will come from the city proper. My sweet sister is running out of armies, so more than likely, she’ll remain behind her high walls until she has no other choice.”

“What allies does she have left?” Daenerys asks.

“Almost none, Your Grace,” Varys tells her. “What’s left of the Stormland forces have yet to mobilize, and the Crownland army is but a few old men and young boys with pitchforks. The brunt of Cersei’s strength are the Riverland armies, which are now controlled by Walder Frey.”

“The Late Lord Frey,” Theon remembers Lady Catelyn calling him.

Varys bows his head. “Precisely. Lord Walder will not bestir himself; he has always sided with the clear victor, and he will soon bow and scrape to you, Your Grace.”

“I cannot have a man like that ruling the Riverlands,” Daenerys decides. “His loyalty is as changeable as the moon, and from what I hear, he cannot even honor guest right in his own home. He will be dealt with once Cersei has bent the knee.”

A savage part of Theon cannot wait for Daenerys to deal with Walder Frey. The man has lived far too long and has used that abnormally long life to take lands and titles and marriages. And he killed Robb and Lady Catelyn, a crime for which Theon cannot ever forgive the Freys.

_ Let the Twins burn with all the Freys in them; the realm will be the better for it. _

.

When he gets back to his room, he finds it in disarray as Jeyne tries to pack her things. 

“Have you worn all of these?” he asks, gingerly moving a dress so he can sit on the bed. 

“Most of them. I’ve been here a very long time, you know.” She reaches towards the bed. “Can you hand me that brooch? The emerald one?”

He does, leaning over to hand it to her. “You have quite the haul here.” He sifts through the items on the bed, most of which are silver and jewels. “You could buy a small army with some of these.”

“They look much prettier on me than in the hands of a sellsword, don’t you think?”

“I do.” He unearths a small burlap bag; when he loosens the drawstring, he sees dried up buds of yellow and purple flowers. “What’s this?”

Jeyne looks up, shrugging when she sees the bag. “My tea.”

“Your tea?”

“My moon tea, so I don’t have any little krakens.”

The thought of Jeyne pregnant with his child makes him harder than it ought to. “Would you ever want them?”

She glances up at him again, cheeks pink. “With you?” When he nods, she looks down at the dress she’s folding. It doesn’t escape his notice that she folds it, unfolds it, and then folds it again. “Would... _ you _ ever want them?”

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Jeyne is still folding the same dress. “Then, yes.”

Theon slides onto the floor behind her, pulling her into his lap. “I’d like to see you big with my child,” he murmurs, resting his hands on her belly. 

“Oh.” Her heart is pounding; he can feel the pulse in her neck. “And what...sort of child will this be?”

“What do you mean?”

She takes a deep breath. “Will they be a bastard, or trueborn?”

“Trueborn,” he says at once.

She releases her breath on a shaky sigh. “Does that mean you want to make me your salt wife?”

“Not my salt wife.” He shifts her in his arms so that she’s looking up at him. “I want you to be my rock wife, my  _ true _ wife, and I want our children to have the Greyjoy name.”

There are tears in Jeyne’s eyes, but they look to be happy ones. “Is that allowed?” she murmurs. “I’m not ironborn.”

“I don’t care, and neither does Asha.”

She smiles. “Asha knows?”

“Yes,” he admits. “I asked her...a while ago now.”

“But why didn’t you say anything to me until now?”

He ducks his head. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to marry me.”

She makes a disbelieving sound. “Of  _ course _ I want to marry you!”

“Are you sure?” he presses. “You don’t...want to go back to Winterfell?”

Jeyne makes a face. “What’s there for me in Winterfell?”

“It was your home.”

“Just as it was yours,” she points out. “But it wouldn’t be the same for either of us.” She sits up, pressing her forehead to his. “I want to be wherever you are.  _ That’s _ my home.”

He kisses her, feeling both relieved she wants to marry him and stupid for having waited so long to bring it up. 

He feels a dampness on his cheeks just then and realizes that she’s crying. “Jeyne?” he asks, pulling back. “What is it?”

She gives him a watery smile, wiping her eyes. “It’s silly.”

“Tell me.”

She shakes her head. “It’s only...when I was locked up in...the brothel, I used to think...I was going to die there. I never thought I’d see the sunlight again, or walk on the streets, or feel snow on my face.” She sniffs, wiping her eyes again. “It’s just hard to believe that I could go from  _ that _ to...this. I’m so happy I feel like my heart will burst.”

Theon pulls her into his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I want to make you happy always.”

“You do. You always do.” She sits up. “But if you don’t, I’ll give you the Face of Displeasure.”

“Only Arya is allowed to use that.”

“I think she’ll side with me.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

Jeyne smiles, and it is the prettiest sight he has ever seen.


	28. Chapter 28

“It’s not too late to turn back,” Jon says for what has to be the hundredth time. 

“I’m not turning back,” Arya says, also for the hundredth time. “I’ve come this far. And besides, I’m a better fighter than you.”

“You beat me  _ one time-- _ ”

“I could beat you again,” she threatens.

“Children,” Thoros says with a smile, walking up in between them. 

“I could beat you, too,” she mutters at the red priest.

“I’m sure you could, little wolf.”

“I’m not little anymore.”

“No?” quips Gendry, coming up on her other side. He rests a hand over her head and then brings it to his chin. “You look little to me.”

Arya responds by shoving him in the snow. He goes down hard, and the other men laugh as he sputters out a curse and tries to get to his feet, the movement made all the more awkward by the heavy layers he wears. 

They’re all wearing a lot of layers, to keep them warm as they go farther north than even Arya has ever gone.  _ None _ of them have gone this far north, save Jon, the wildling named Tormund, and the handful of brothers of the Night’s Watch that are with them. 

For the most part, it hasn’t been unbearably cold, but that’s if it isn’t storming. The snow storms are usually brief, but always terrible, and more than once they’ve had to shelter behind some rocks or in a shallow cave if they can find one. 

Overall, everyone seems in good spirits; they complain about the cold, and how hard it is to piss, but they tell stories and share jokes, too. The first time one of them lets slip a bawdy joke, some of them look at Arya, scandalized, but she’s picked up a thing or two since joining the ironborn, so she fires back with an even bawdier joke. They all roar with laughter at that, and don’t hold back moving forward. 

Not that Sandor, Beric, or Thoros would have held back around her. Her three former caretakers, oddly sharing a cell when she, Jon, Ser Davos, and Ser Jorah arrived at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, never held back around her before, so why should they start now?

“What happened to the rest of the Brotherhood?” she asks them on the second day. 

“They’re still in the Riverlands, I expect,” Beric says. “Thoros and I felt...a calling. The others wanted to remain in the Riverlands.”

“What kind of calling brought you to the Wall? Wait, don’t answer that,” she says, already knowing the answer. “The red god.”

“Yes, the red god,” Beric says with a smile. 

“Then what brought the Hound to you?”

“The same calling. He looked into the flames and saw the same thing I did.”

Arya furrows her brow. “He hates fire.”

“So he does.”

“But you’re telling me he looked into the flames?”

“He did.”

She asks the Hound about it later, and to her surprise (and mild disdain), he confirms Beric’s story.

“But you hate fire.”

“I do.”

“And you hate Beric and Thoros.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you here?”

“‘Cause of what I saw in the flames. You done asking stupid questions?”

That makes her give a grudging smile. “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you. Still fucking annoying.”

But she thinks she sees a smile on his face.

.

It’s been nearly a week since they set out from Eastwatch when they find themselves caught in a sudden storm. They’re in the middle of an open plain, and because they can barely see through the snow, they can only trudge forward in the hopes they find shelter. 

“Look!” Tormund suddenly shouts over the howling wind, and when Arya squints, she sees a dark shape up ahead.

“A bear!” the Hound declares. “Big fucker.”

“What’s it doing?” Arya shouts back. 

No one answers her, because no one knows. The bear is moving, but is it coming closer or moving away? Or is it doing something else entirely?

One of the brothers of the Night’s Watch moves ahead to get a better look.

“I think it’s coming this way!” Jon tries to tell him...but the man does not turn back until the bear is visibly running towards them with a stunning speed. Everyone raises their weapons, shouting for the man to rejoin them, but the bear is faster, snatching the man and dragging him into the white storm.

They move forward slowly, as a group, and find only a smear of blood and the man’s pike. They form a tight circle, backs to each other as they raise their weapons. 

The bear thunders out of nowhere, roaring over the storm as it crashes on another brother of the Night’s Watch. Jon lunges forward and is promptly thrown to the side, sprawling in the snow.

“It’s one of them!” he shouts. “It’s a wight!”

Arya looks up. The bear looks like any other to her, but its eyes are a crystalline blue. 

_ So this is what a wight looks like. _ After hearing about them for so long, she’s finally face to face with one...and she’s more afraid than she’d like to admit. She had known the wights were no small thing, that they feel no pain and do not fear death, and that is why they are so dangerous...but imagining them and actually seeing them are two different things. 

They have to fight a whole army...of  _ these? _

Beric and Thoros draw flaming swords and run for the bear; Beric manages to set the beast alight, but still it advances on them, coming for the Hound, who can only stand there, petrified.

_ Fire, he’s afraid of fire, _ Arya remembers, and she starts to run forward, but Gendry yanks her back.

“Let me go!” she shouts. “It’s going to kill him!”

“Better him than you!” Gendry bellows.

_ Stupid bull, _ she thinks irritably.

Thoros, thankfully, comes to the rescue, shoving the Hound out of the way and using his sword as a shield. The bear knocks him down, teeth closing over the sword; he manages to wrestle it from Thoros’s grip, spitting it to the side as if it were a bone in his capon before he uses his jaws to shake Thoros like a dog shaking a stick. The Hound can only sit there, frozen in fear.

Arya jerks out of Gendry’s grip and bolts forward, making a running leap into the air. Her dragonglass blade pierces the bear, which immediately collapses in a dead, fiery heap. Beric and Gendry grab Thoros by either arm, dragging him away from his foe. When Gendry pulls back Thoros’s furs, they can see bloody gashes across his chest. 

“We have to get him back to Eastwatch,” Ser Jorah declares.

But Thoros shakes his head. “Flask,” he grunts. 

Beric hands him his flask; Thoros drinks deeply before gritting his teeth in a smile. “Go on.”

The Hound turns away as Beric lowers his sword, burning Thoros’s wounds to staunch the flow of blood. Arya knows enough about wounds to know that the burns may stop the bleeding, but they will not heal the gashes. 

_ He should go back to Eastwatch, and rest and recover. But he’s too stubborn.  _

“You all right?” Beric asks.

“Just got bit by a dead bear,” Thoros grunts. 

“Aye, you did.”

“Funny old life.” He holds out his hand, letting Ser Jorah and Gendry pull him to his feet. He leans heavily on Ser Jorah while Jon and Tormund cut off the heads of the men killed by the bear, not wanting them to come back as wights.

Gendry comes to stand beside Arya. “He should go back to Eastwatch.”

“You tell him, then.” She’s quiet for a moment, watching the red priest hobble through the snow. “How did you end up in a cell with them?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Last time I saw you, they were selling you to the red woman.”

“Yeah, well...it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” He glances at her. “We’re all on the side of the living now.”

Arya purses her lips. She supposes he’s right. Whatever happened in the past will mean little and less if it’s the living against the dead. But still…

“I put them on my list for that, you know.”

“That list of names you always said?” he asks with a grin. “You were gonna avenge me, is that it?”

“Shut up.” She moves to walk beside Jon as the group heads back into the storm. “So,” she asks, “that was a wight?”

“That was,” her brother says grimly. “Never seen a bear like that, though.”

“Are the people...better?”

Jon gives her a look. “They’re not people. And they’re not better. They’re smaller, and faster, and harder to kill.”

“Wonderful,” Arya mutters.

“It’s not too late, you know. You and Thoros could head back--”

“I’m not turning back. And neither is he.”

.

They finally find shelter at the base of a rocky hill. They huddle together, waiting out the storm.

In the morning, when the storm has cleared, they unfurl cramped arms and legs and keep heading north. They pass pieces of jerky between them, tearing off bites with their teeth and chewing through the tough, hardened meat. 

Arya likes it, in a way. It makes her feel rough and adventurous. 

They’re climbing the slope of a hill when Tormund stops short, holding up a hand. Everyone else stops short, too, and though no one was talking, they seem to fall especially silent as he and Jon climb up to a rock shelf, peering over the edge.

When they climb back down, they have grave looks on their faces.

“Wights?” Arya whispers.

Jon nods tersely. “About twenty. We could take them. Or at least, it’ll be easier to fight twenty of them than twenty thousand.”

“So what do we do?” Gendry asks, already hefting his axe.

Jon looks at him. “We lay a trap.”

.

They race ahead of the wights and the white walker who leads them, vaulting over the rocky hills above the ravine floor that the wights are walking upon. When they are far enough ahead, they start a campfire; small, and one that won’t be noticed until the wights are right on top of it, but enough to give them pause. Then, they hide behind the snowbanks beneath the rocks. 

The wights and their white walker come across the fire not minutes later, and all pause to consider it. Arya gets a good look at them while she waits for Jon’s signal. The wights could be men beneath their ratty furs, but the glimpses she gets of faces and hands assure her that these are not living men anymore. Their skin is mottled, the kind of brownish-grey that comes from living things going to rot, but their eyes are a piercing blue, just like the bear’s. 

The white walker is easily the most terrifying of the bunch. He wears silvery, almost mirror-like armor, and his skin and hair are as white as snow. He has the same piercing blue eyes as the wights, the sign of the dead become undead. 

When the white walker is turned away, trying to find the source of the fire, Jon gives the signal, and the living rush forward, Valyrian steel and dragonglass raised to fight the wights. 

It isn’t like any fighting Arya has experienced before; she’s used to opponents trying to duck and dodge, of course, but these things move faster than any living being. There is no caution to their movements, either, just a blind hatred motivating them. Arya’s sword cuts through bones and rotted flesh, but the wight she’s facing doesn’t stop, just keeps coming at her. 

Very suddenly, the wight collapses in a pile of ashes; when she looks around, she sees the others have disappeared as well, and what was once a white walker is now a few shards of ice. There’s only one wight left; the Hound throws himself at it, using his weight to pin down the beast while the others work to tie it up and bind it in the burlap they’ve brought with them. 

A distant rumbling makes them all look up. Jon is staring at the ridge on the horizon, and on that ridge are a thousand moving pinpricks.

The Army of the Dead.

They move quickly, binding the wight at last. The Hound hefts him over his shoulder. “Alright,” he declares, breaking into a run. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“Can we outrun them?” Gendry asks, running beside him as the others break into a run as well. 

“We can sure fucking try!”

Arya grabs Gendry’s arm. “You’re the fastest. I know you are. I’ve seen you run. Go on ahead of us to Eastwatch and tell them to send help.”

Gendry looks at her reluctantly. “I don’t know if I can--”

“Go without your hammer, it’ll slow you down,” she urges. “Just keep running, we’ll be behind you.”

“But those things--”

“Do you have a better plan?!”

Gendry groans and hands her his hammer. “Don’t die,” he orders before tearing off ahead of them. 

Thoros, stumbling after them, looks back at the Army of the Dead and then comes to a halt.

“Thoros!” Beric shouts. “What are you doing?!”

“What I came here to do.” He looks at Beric sadly. “Go on.”

Beric draws his sword. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Too late.” 

The two men look at each other, grim smiles on their faces.

“Go on,” Beric says to the others. “We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

Jon grabs Arya’s arm, and the group breaks into a run once more. 

“They can’t hold off the whole army by themselves,” Arya says to Jon, glancing over her shoulder at the two men with flaming swords.

“You didn’t see Thoros charge the breach at Pyke,” Ser Jorah tells her. “They may not be able to hold off the whole army by themselves, but they’ll give us a few more minutes--and we need every second they can buy us.”

So they run, and try not to think about what follows them.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all caught up now, so I'm not sure when the next update will be. Enjoy this in the meantime!

The spires of the Red Keep rise up over the horizon long before they reach King’s Landing. Theon, who’s never seen the capital before, watches as the great city sprawls up before them. He’s heard that the Red Keep is smaller than Winterfell, but in truth, he fears the Red Keep more. Winterfell’s round towers and grey stones had looked like home to him, but the thin, pointed red spires of the Red Keep only look like a threat. Like Dragonstone, the Red Keep was built to be a fortress for warlords, a palace built for conquerors.

Jeyne explains the layout of the keep to him.

“Maegor’s Holdfast is a sort of keep within the keep,” she tells him. “It has a dry moat with iron spikes and walls twelve feet thick. All the members of the royal family sleep there.” She points to another tower. “That’s the Tower of the Hand, where we lived. That’s White Sword Tower, where all the Kingsguard live, and the Maidenvault, and just below that is the sept.”

“The Sept of Baelor?”

“No, that’s a different sept,” she explains patiently. “We might have been able to see it from sea once, but now that Cersei’s destroyed it, there’s nothing there. It was beautiful, though; it had a wide dome and crystal towers. The royal sept is pretty, too, but not as grand. And there’s a godswood, but no weirwood. The heart tree is really just an oak tree; it doesn’t even have a face.”

“I suppose weirwood trees don’t grow this far south,” he muses. “Does anyone ever use the godswood?”

“Lord Stark made Sansa and Arya hold vigil with him one night, to pray for Bran,” Jeyne says thoughtfully. “But I think that was it. I know the gods are everywhere, but Father said a godswood without a heart tree was just a wood.” A sad look crosses her face. “I think maybe he was right. The old gods couldn’t protect us here.”

He kisses the top of her head. “When we take the city, we’ll kill everyone who ever hurt you and your father and the Starks and all the men that came with them.”

“You’ll have a hard time of that,” she says softly, “when it was nearly every armed man in the Red Keep.”

“Then we’ll kill all the armed men in the Red Keep, starting with Meryn Trant.”

Jeyne goes quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling back to look at her. “Should I not have said his name?”

She looks almost guilty. “It isn’t that, it’s just...well...Ser Meryn is already dead.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Dead? When did you hear this?”

“Ah…” She fiddles nervously with the folds of her dress. “Well...in Braavos.”

“In Braavos?” She’s acting very strange, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. “But we set sail less than two days after Arya told us he was in the city.” 

“We did,” Jeyne agrees, not meeting his eye.

He gapes at her, realization setting in. “You didn’t just hear about his death, did you?”

She shakes her head. “I sort of...helped kill him.”

“You  _ sort of _ helped kill him?”

She looks up at him at last, brown eyes pleading. “Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry,” he assures her. “I’m just...confused how two girls killed a  _ knight of the Kingsguard. _ ”

She bites her lip. “Well, it was rather easy, actually. We found out where he and Lord Tyrell were lodging and which room was whose, so I snuck up to his room while he was away and let Arya in through the window. She hid under the bed and I sort of...pretended I had been sent to...you know. Nothing happened,” she hastens to assure him, seeing the look on his face. “As soon as he was close, Arya made quick work of him. I must say, it was very satisfying to watch a knight of the Kingsguard get cut down by a little girl with a toothpick for a sword.”

“I can imagine,” he says, still a little in awe. “But...weren’t you afraid something might happen? I mean, what if Arya hadn’t succeeded?”

“But she did.”

“Yes, but what if she hadn’t?”

Jeyne shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. I was trying not to think about that. But she said she wouldn’t let anything happen to me, and I trusted her, and...well, it’s all over now.” She bites her lip. “Are you...angry?”

“Angry?”

“That I didn’t tell you for so long.”

He considers her question. “I’d have liked to have known sooner,” he admits. “But I probably wouldn’t have taken it well if you’d told me when it happened, so I see why you waited. No, I’m not angry. I’m glad he’s dead.”

She relaxes. “Oh, good. Because...I want to do it again.”

“Kill Meryn Trant?” he asks, confused.

“Not Ser Meryn.” She takes a deep breath. “Jon said that Lord Baelish is in Winterfell.”

Theon raises an eyebrow. He’d had some hope that Baelish would be killed in the Great Sept of Baelor with all the other nobles of court, but now… “And you want to kill him?”

She nods. “I do.”

He takes her hand, mulling this over. “I could kill him for you. So you don’t have to.”

“And I appreciate that,” she says gently, “but...I want to be the one to do it.”

He understands that. Of everyone who had tormented her, Baelish had been the worst, because he’d opened the door for those tormentors. He’d trained her and whipped her and kept her locked in a room where men paid him for the chance to rape her. The scars on her back will never heal, and the scars in her mind may well never heal, either...but at least she can have this. 

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll go to Winterfell first chance we get.” 

She beams hopefully. “Truly?”

“Truly. I want him dead, too.”

Jeyne rises up on her toes to kiss him. “You are good to me.”

“I try.”

She tugs him towards their cabin. “Let me be good to you.”

“Well, if you  _ insist.” _

.

The days pass uneventfully. Theon tries to tell himself it’s a good thing...but he cannot help but remember the maester’s words. Even now, Cersei could be hatching a plot behind those high walls, preparing her army for a surprise attack. 

Asha and the men seem to be aware of it, too; there is no drinking and carousing, no parties on the ironborn ships. Everyone is still and silent, tensed for an attack that may never come.

It comes as a relief when a ship comes from Dragonstone with a message from Daenerys.

“Queen Daenerys bids you return to Dragonstone at once,” the Unsullied messenger tells Theon, Jeyne, and Asha. “Arya Stark and Jon Snow have returned from the Wall.”

“Did they find what they were looking for?” Asha asks him.

“This one does not know, only what he is told. Come. There must be no delays.”

Theon, Jeyne, and Asha trade looks as the messenger returns to his ship.

“I assume Daenerys wouldn’t summon us back if it wasn’t important,” Jeyne says slowly. 

“No, she wouldn’t,” Asha agrees. “Do you think they actually found a...white walker or whatever it is they were looking for?”

Theon cannot believe that they actually found such a thing...but… “If they didn’t find anything, I don’t think Jon would’ve shown his face to the queen. He could’ve gone back to Winterfell. Why go back to Dragonstone empty-handed?”

“Why indeed?” Asha muses. “And she summoned us to return  _ at once. _ Something has happened.”

“Then we’d better leave straightaway.”

.

They leave that very hour, taking ten ships with them and leaving the rest under the Cleftjaw’s command. Theon is curious to find out what Arya and Jon have found, but more than that, strangely, he’s relieved to put King’s Landing behind them. 

.

Arya is waiting for them at the dock when they arrive. She looks unscathed, but there is a wariness to her as she hugs them.

“Did you find...proof?” Jeyne asks as they head up to the castle.

“We did,” Arya confirms. “We went out beyond the Wall and ran into the whole army.”

Theon and Asha raise their eyebrows at one another. 

“How did you get away?”

“Dumb luck,” Arya says wryly. “We caught the wight we needed and saw the army at a distance; Gendry--my friend--ran on ahead to Eastwatch to send for reinforcements, and we followed close behind. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr stayed behind to distract the army for as long as they could; they gave us just enough of a headstart to make it back to Eastwatch. The Watch had archers and trebuchets ready, but the dead turned back all of a sudden. It was the strangest thing.”

Theon and his sister exchange another look.

“Look, I  _ know _ how it sounds,” Arya pleads. “But it’s true, I swear it.”

“I believe you,” Jeyne tells her. 

“We all do,” Asha says. “But I’ll believe it better when I’ve seen one of these things myself.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because we caught one.”

“A white walker?”

“No; if we tried to capture a white walker, we’d be dead. Also I think Jon said the children of the forest put enchantments on the Wall so the white walkers can’t get through. This is a wight; it’s one of the dead men that the white walkers raised.”

Theon doesn’t know what to make of this. He doesn’t think Arya  _ and _ Jon would lie about this, or have shared the same fever-dream...but how can he believe that any of this is real?

_ I suppose I’m about to find out. _

The walk up the narrow path is so long and Theon is so unused to walking on dry land that he watches his feet, exhausted...until he reaches the entrance to the castle, and the man standing in it.

He swallows. “Jon.”

Jon Snow stares back at him, his face unreadable. He’s grown into a man, and looks more like his lord father than ever. He also looks ready to kill Theon. 

Jon raises his fist, pointing a finger at Theon. “What you did--”

Theon shifts. “I know.”

“You took Winterfell.”

“I did.”

“You let the Boltons in.”

“I did.”

“And then you walked away.”

“Ran, more like it,” Theon says wryly. “But yes, I did those things, and I’m sorry.”

Jon’s jaw twitches. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Arya tells her brother. “We’re all on the same side now, remember?”

Jon blows out a breath. “Aye. We’re on the same side now. But I don’t have to like you, Greyjoy.”

“Never said you did.”

Jon grunts, “Follow me,” and leads them into the castle.

Theon doesn’t particularly relish the idea of following Jon anywhere, but he knows he has no choice. To his surprise, however, they do not go into the throne room to greet Daenerys or her councilors; instead, Jon and Arya lead them into the bowels of the castle, down winding stairs to what can only be the dungeons. Theon is beginning to wonder if maybe Jon is going to get revenge after all when he hears a strange sort of growling at the end of the corridor.

Jon and Arya take torches, leading the other three down the corridor. There are two Unsullied standing guard; their faces are unreadable as the others pass them.

The corridor is wide and sweeping, and Jon and Arya stand far to one side as they reach the last cell; Theon starts to look into the cell, but a sudden shriek, like the scream of a storm and the felling of a tree, fills his ears and he cries out. There’s something coming for him, and though there is a cell door between him and the creature, he stumbles back in fear, pushing a screaming Jeyne behind him until they’re pressed against the opposite cell.

The dead thing attacks the bars with more speed and strength than a dead man ought to possess. And he is dead; of that, Theon is certain. He is bones and scraps of rotted flesh; the only particularly undead part of him are the ice-blue eyes that glare at Theon, full of hatred.

“Fucking hell,” Asha swears, “that’s...a wight?”

“That’s a wight,” Jon confirms grimly. “A soldier in the Army of the Dead.”

Asha is visibly shaken. “And...how many of those are there?”

“Thousands. Maybe even millions” Jon turns to look at her. “Every man, woman, and child that’s ever died beyond the Wall has likely turned into one of these things.”

Jeyne shivers. “Please, let’s go, I can’t...I can’t stand being around that thing.”

It  _ is _ making a horrible sound, continuing its assault on the cell, so Jon leads them back out of the dungeons. 

Theon finds his voice on the stairs. “Arya said...they turned back once they were in sight of the Wall.”

“They did,” Jon allows. “I still don’t know why.”

“Then do we really need to fear them?” Asha asks. “If they’re afraid of the Wall…”

“They’ve been planning this attack for eight thousand years,” Jon says wearily. “Whatever made them turn away from the Wall that day wasn’t fear, it was...something else. They’re coming for us.”

“Can they even get past the Wall?”

“The wights can. And the white walkers can control them from the other side of the Wall, too. One of my brothers was found dead, and we brought him back to Castle Black; that night he got up, went to the Lord Commander’s chamber, and tried to strangle him.” Jon pulls off his glove, revealing a burn on his hand. “I got this killing the damn thing.”

Theon has to admit...it  _ does _ sound like a problem. Even if the white walkers can’t get through, if they can control an Army of the Dead from beyond the Wall…

Jon and Arya lead them up and up the stairs, until they reach the familiar room with the Painted Table. Daenerys is standing over it with Tyrion and Lord Varys; she looks glad to see them, if a little wan. 

“I see you’ve met our guest,” she says dryly. 

Asha wastes no time with pleasantries. “What are we going to do?” 

“An excellent question,” Tyrion says, gesturing to the table. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“The Northern forces and the knights of the Vale are currently gathered at Winterfell,” Daenerys says. “With my Dothraki and Unsullied, it should be enough. Lord Snow wants me to abandon my siege on King’s Landing and take all our forces north, where we will march on the Wall and launch an attack from there.”

“Don’t abandon the siege,” Asha says at once. “The longer we’re gone, the more time Cersei has to prepare an attack.”

“That’s what I said,” Daenerys says, giving Jon an accusatory sort of look. 

Tyrion clears his throat. “I agree with Queen Asha. My sister is cunning, and ruthless. She may not have gold or armies now, but if we send  _ all _ of our forces north, she’ll manage to get her hands on both, that I promise you.”

Jon grits his teeth. “We need every man we have against the dead--”

“Don’t be stupid,” Theon snaps, a familiar irritation welling up at his former friend. “They’re right; if we give Cersei the chance to gather an army, Daenerys will have to fight for her kingdom all over again, and you and Sansa will have to do the same for the North. Look, we don’t need a  _ lot _ of men. The Dornish are better at ambushes and sieges than open battle; leave them here with a few hundred Unsullied and Dothraki, the bulk of the Iron Fleet can remain in Blackwater Bay, and all the rest can head north to join forces with the North and the Vale. If the armies go by land, they’ll have to pass through the Riverlands, which means they can break up what’s left of Cersei’s forces and the Freys and bring the Riverland armies north, too. If something happens at the Wall, we can send for the reinforcements in the south.”

The room is quiet for a moment as everyone considers this plan, and even Jon has a look of grudging acceptance on his face.

“I like it,” Daenerys says at last. 

“So do I,” Tyrion agrees, giving Theon one of his wry smiles. 

“Do I have the North’s cooperation in this?” Daenerys asks, turning to Jon and Arya.

The siblings exchange a look; they nod at each other, turning back to the queen.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She surveys the table before her. “I’ll ride north with my armies; Queen Asha, Prince Theon, I will leave the siege of King’s Landing in your capable hands.”

Asha bows her head, but Theon clears his throat. “Actually, Your Grace...I would like to ride north as well.”

He gets more than one raised eyebrow, and Asha frowns. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath. “There are a few reasons. I want to be there when House Frey falls. I want to make amends in Winterfell. And...I want to see those...things...dead. Sieging King’s Landing is well and good, but I don’t want to stand around on a ship and wait for a surrender. I want to help defeat the Army of the Dead.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment. 

It’s Asha who breaks the silence. “Well, if my baby brother is going to fight the Army of the Dead, so am I,” she says cheerfully. “Where he goes, I go.”

Theon loves her for that, that lack of hesitation and eagerness to be beside him. It isn’t just him who would follow her to the ends of the earth; she would follow him, too.

“Well, I won’t lie; I will feel safer with you there,” Daenerys says to Asha, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She clears her throat, slipping back into her queenly voice. “I trust you have a captain you can appoint to manage the siege in your stead?”

“Aye, the man I left in charge can handle things,” Asha tells her.

Daenerys nods. “Good. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“Whenever you command. I can have my men ferry you all to the mainland, but I would prefer to sail north to White Harbor and meet you at Winterfell.”

Daenerys nods again. “Very well. Lord Tyrion, how soon can we leave?”

“At the earliest? Two days,” he guesses. “We will need to send word to the armies, and to the Queen in the North.”

“I’ll write to my sister,” Jon says. “And to Lord Manderly at White Harbor.”

“And I’ll send word to Grey Worm,” Tyrion says, already leaving the room. 

Daenerys clears her throat. “Queen Asha, I’d like a private word with you. Everyone else may go.”

They do, Theon slowing his steps to not catch up with Jon. It is to his surprise, then, when Jon turns on the stair and waits for him. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Ride north with us.”

“I do, though,” Theon tells him. “I’m a good fighter...and if there’s a whole army of those things, you’ll need every fighter you’ve got.”

Jon nods slowly. “Well...I thank you for it.” Hesitantly, he holds out his hand. 

Theon takes his arm, nodding. Jon nods back, looking neither pleased nor displeased.

That’s good enough for Theon.


	30. Chapter 30

Asha ferries Daenerys and her Dragonstone forces to the mainland; from there, they converge with the Unsullied and Dothraki and march up the Kingsroad. 

All told, they should arrive in Winterfell in two or three weeks’ time. The journey had not seemed so bad from the comfort of Dragonstone, but only a few days in the saddle and Theon already regrets not sailing; it’s been years since he spent so long ahorse, and his lower half is killing him. 

But when they come across the Twins, he decides that the ride was worth it.

Up until now, they have not encountered any Freys or Lannisters, who have had the good sense to draw back, it would seem. But now, as they come closer to the Twins, they see a small force of Freys waiting outside. The men dismount, bending the knee as Daenerys draws closer.

“Queen Daenerys!” the man leading the party calls. He’s a pale, slender man, and when he looks up, Theon sees a pinched nose and thin smile. “I am Edwyn Frey, heir to the Twins. On behalf of my great-grandfather, Lord Walder, I hereby swear the allegiance of House Frey to you and your descendants.”

“That is marvelous strange, Lord Edwyn, when only days ago, you were sworn to Cersei Lannister,” Daenerys says coldly. “What has changed?”

When Edwyn does not have an answer right away, Tyrion helpfully suggests, “Perhaps it would be the very large army with dragons.”

Edwyn’s pale face reddens. “We are loyal to the true queen of Westeros--”

“Forgive me, Lord Edwyn, but you were once loyal to the King in the North, too, were you not? Until a different king gave you a better offer?” Daenerys asks in the same cold tone. 

Edwyn rises in a fury. “Robb Stark was a traitor to the crown; he marched on us and forced us to yield--”

“That’s a lie,” Theon snaps. “I was there that day. The Crossing was barred until your great-grandfather forced Catelyn Stark to agree to marriages--”

“Which Robb Stark did not honor,” another Frey snaps. “Aye, we pledged fealty to Robb Stark...until he broke his word. Why should we follow a king who won’t keep his word?”

“Why should we listen to kingslayers?” Arya demands.

Daenerys raises a hand. “Enough. There is bad blood between you both, and I cannot undo that. But I would speak with Lord Walder himself. Why will he not come to me?”

“He is old, Your Grace, and has difficulty moving--”

“Surely such strapping sons and grandsons can carry him,” Daenerys says pointedly. 

The Freys exchange looks, but several of them return to the keep. 

Daenerys, Tyrion, and Grey Worm share a murmured exchange in Valyrian during this time; when there’s movement at the gate, they fall silent, watching as men carry Lord Walder in a litter. 

He’s just as old and putrid as Theon remembers, a sickly, sallow man spotted with age. 

_ He’s lived too long, but that ends today. _

“Your Grace,” he hums, getting off his litter with the help of his sons. They help him sink into a pathetic bow. “The Twins are yours.”

“Forgive me, Lord Walder,” Daenerys calls, “but given your history with kings and queens, I confess I am reluctant to put my trust in you.”

Lord Walder’s thin smile falters. “I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.” 

He stares at her, gaping like a fish out of water. 

“No? Very well. Walder Frey, you and your family stand accused of treason and kingslaying. I hereby sentence you to die.”

“No!” 

Edwyn Frey’s face purples. “Archers!”

But Daenerys shouts over him,  _ “Dracarys!” _

The dragons descend with their high, keening screams, a torrent of flame lighting the near tower. A few arrows loose, but they land dully in the grass, their wielders having succumbed to the flames before they could make a proper shot. There are shouts and screams inside, and a few men throw themselves from the windows only to meet their end on the ground below. The Freys gathered outside the keep attempt to flee, but the Dothraki raise their  _ arakhs, _ cutting down those who would try to escape.

Theon, Arya, Jon, and the Northmen join the Dothraki; all but Walder Frey are spared. The old man, left a helpless heap of bones on the ground, watches his sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons die with wide, horrified eyes. 

“‘And now the rains weep o’er his halls, with no one there to hear,’” Arya tells the old man coldly. “That’s what you played at the Red Wedding, isn’t it? When you killed my mother and brother?”

The old man begins to sob. “Please...I didn’t...I never…”

“Enough.” Jon stands in front of Lord Walder. “I have half a mind to kill you, and another half to let you live out the rest of your miserable life with the image of your house in flames burned into your mind.”

“Please,” Lord Walder sobs. “Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please,” is all he says again.

“Kill him,” Theon says curtly. “He can’t be trusted to live out the rest of his miserable life.”

“I think you’re right.” And with that, Jon swings his sword, severing the old man’s head from his shoulders. 

.

When they cross the bridge and come in sight of the tower on the far bank, they see dozens of women and children peering out at them. One of these women, a buxom blonde, leans out to call down, “Well, nephew? Is it not as I said it would be?”

Tyrion smiles up at what Theon realizes must be his aunt, Genna Lannister. “It is, and I thank you for it.”

“The Twins are yours, Your Grace,” Genna Lannister adds to Daenerys.

“No, my lady,” Daenerys says with a smile, “I believe they are  _ yours _ .”

Genna Lannister’s laughter follows them all the way through the tower and onto the bank.

“Two queens vying for the Iron Throne, Queen of the Iron Islands, Queen in the North, and now House Frey is run by women,” Jeyne muses. “The realm is run by women.”

And at the same time, she and Arya both say, “Good.”

.

A small flurry of snow greets them at Moat Cailin. Theon breathes deeply, the cold air filling his lungs. 

He’s missed the North. He never thought he’d be allowed to come back, and the homecoming is all the sweeter because of it. It still isn’t his home, and he knows he cannot stay here after the war, but at least for now he can enjoy it.

The snows get heavier on the ground and fall in thicker, fatter flakes as they ride further north; by the time they reach Cerwyn, it’s a couple feet deep. 

The days also grow shorter as they make their way north, though that’s not unusual for winter in the North. Short days and long nights are the standard when the snows start falling, but the days are so short as to make it feel like the heart of winter rather than the beginning of it. It could be a short winter, perhaps...but given what waits on the other side of the Wall, Theon doesn’t think that’s the case.

At last, Winterfell rises up over the horizon, snow-blanketed towers and turrets reaching towards the cloudy sky and smoke curling up from dozens of hearths. As much joy as it brings Theon to see it, he feels a stab of grief, too. All the memories he has of this place are tainted by the knowledge of what happened to the Starks...most of which was because of him.

_ Robb and Lord and Lady Stark are dead, Bran may be as well, Sansa was raped by her captor husband, and the little ones roamed without a home for so long...but I’m still here, alive and well. _

They pass through the Winter Town, the people who dwell there flocking to the road to watch the procession. Some of the faces are familiar, and when they see Theon, they frown.

_ They remember. _

Chilled suddenly, he blurts, “I can’t.”

Jeyne looks at him. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I can’t go in there.” He feels as if the walls of Winterfell are pressing in on him, and he isn’t even there yet. “I’m going to wait outside, I...I can’t go into the keep.” He reins away.

“Theon!”

“You go,” he tells her. “I know you want to see Sansa.”

To his surprise--and if he’s being honest, his relief--Jeyne reins after him, drawing up alongside him as they canter away from the others. 

“I’m not leaving you,” she says stubbornly. “Sansa can wait.”

_ She chose me over Sansa. _ Logically he had known she was going to marry him and not return to Winterfell, but it heartens him to have the proof. 

They ride away from the head of the column, joining the Unsullied who are pitching tents. They’re unloading their things and putting them in the tent when something big and black and hairy knocks Theon to the ground, a huge paw on his chest keeping him pinned while white fangs growl in his face.

“Shaggydog!” a voice exclaims. “Here, Shaggy! Home, Shaggy!”

The wolf climbs off of Theon, padding back to his boy. Theon sits up, gaping, for not only has Rickon sprouted a couple feet, but he’s pushing a chair on wheels, and in the chair…

Is Bran.

Both boys are smiling at him. They’re older now; Rickon’s baby fat has given way to a long, lean face, though his mop of red curls is as wild as ever. Bran, who had always looked a bit sad and serious, looks even more so now; though he’s smiling, his eyes look as if they’ve seen several horrors too many. 

“Little lords,” he says without thinking, getting to his feet. “What are you doing out here?”

“We came to see you,” Rickon says. “Since you decided to run away again.”

Theon flushes, but Rickon strides forward and grips his arm like an old friend. “It’s good to see you again, Theon. Truly.”

“Really?” he asks skeptically.

“We hated you for a bit,” Bran admits. “But after the things we’ve seen...we realized you were like us. Just a scared boy trying to be brave.”

“I was a scared boy at that.” He shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re both alright. Last I heard, Bran, you were beyond the Wall…”

“I only recently returned,” Bran says while Rickon hugs Jeyne. 

“And now you’ve got a chair,” Theon says brightly. “Got too big for Hodor to carry you around, eh?”

Bran’s smile falls.

Oh.

“Why are you staying out here?” Rickon asks, looking around at the camp. “There isn’t a  _ lot _ of room in Winterfell, but…”

Theon shakes his head. “I won’t be able to sleep easy inside those walls.”

“But it’s cold out here.”

“Ah, I’ve got this one to keep me warm,” Theon says, winking at Jeyne. “Besides, I’ve lived through colder winters than this. You’re too young to remember.”

“Yes, but this is going to be the worst winter  _ ever, _ ” Rickon points out. “Bran saw it.”

“He  _ saw _ it?”

Bran shrugs. “I can see things sometimes. Things that were, things that are, and things that are yet to come.”

Theon and Jeyne exchange raised eyebrows. 

“Well…”

“I know you won’t come inside the keep,” Bran continues, “but you should come by for a little bit. Maester Luwin would like to see you.”

Theon feels a tightness in his chest. “He’s still around, is he?”

“He came with Shaggy and Osha and me to the Last Hearth,” Rickon tells him. “And then he came with us when we took back Winterfell. There’s another maester that the Boltons brought when they took the castle, but he’s alright. He does most of the work now because Maester Luwin is getting older.”

Maester Luwin had been an old man when Theon last saw him, and he hopes the last few years haven’t aged the man too much. Then again, looking after Rickon would be enough to send any man to an early grave.

“Maybe I will come by,” Theon allows. “I’d like to see him, too.”

“Who else is here?” Jeyne asks.

“Not many familiar faces,” Bran says sadly. “Most of them were killed or taken prisoner by the Boltons.”

Her face falls. “Oh. That’s too bad.”

“Sansa’s here, though.”

“So I heard,” she says wryly. “And...Lord Baelish?”

Rickon makes a face. “He’s  _ always _ hanging around. He talks to me like I’m a child.”

“Well,” Theon starts to point out, but Jeyne shushes him.

“Will you do me a favor?” she asks the Stark boys.

“Like what?”

She glances at Theon. “Don’t let Lord Baelish know I’m here.”

Rickon furrows his brow. “Why not?”

“I want to surprise him.”

Rickon shrugs. “Alright.” And then, “I taught Shaggydog some tricks, want to see?”

“Absolutely I do.”

.

Asha arrives not long after the others, greeting Theon with a brisk, “It’s  _ fucking _ cold up here, baby brother.”

“Winter in the North,” he says wryly, hugging her. “Glad to see you made it.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure we would; the winter sea is rough the farther north you get. Even Cromm got seasick, and I’ve seen the man eat things I wouldn’t shit. The Manderlys gave us a warm welcome, though, which nearly made up for it.” She surveys the castle. “So, this is where you grew up.”

“It is.”

“Want to show me around?”

“Not really.” He still hasn’t set foot inside the walls. 

“Fair enough. Daenerys?”

“She’s in the keep.” When she starts to make for the keep, he grabs her arm, lowering his voice. “Don’t mention Jeyne.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“The man who put her in the brothel’s in Winterfell. She doesn’t want him to know.”

Her eyebrows rise higher. “And why haven’t you done anything about him?”

“Because Jeyne wants to do it herself when the time is right.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll let him live. For now.” She hesitates. “You sure you won’t come, little brother? I’ll hold your hand if you’re scared.”

“Fuck off,” he says uneasily, but Asha holds out her hand without a trace of irony.

“Come on. We’ve been through everything together, and faced worse than this. What’s so terrifying about this place?”

He looks up at the round towers. “Memories.”

“Memories can’t hurt you, baby brother.”

He wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he also knows she won’t give up. He takes a deep breath. “Fine. But I’m not holding your hand.”

“Well, it’ll be there if you change your mind,” she says cheerfully.

Together, the siblings make for Winterfell.

It is both exactly as he remembers it and also nothing like it. The keep is the same, the sounds and smells are the same, but the people are different. There are more of them, all of them strangers, and none of them spare him more than a passing glance. Without thinking about it, his feet lead him and Asha to the great hall, and, seeing that neither queen is there, through the great hall to Lord Stark’s study.

As he suspected, Daenerys, Sansa, Arya, Jon, Tyrion, Varys, Maester Luwin, and a man Theon doesn’t know are gathered in the room, and all of them look up at the arrival of the Greyjoys. Daenerys cannot hide her smile at seeing Asha, but Arya beats her to it by running forward to hug the other woman. 

Maester Luwin comes forward, smiling. “Theon.”

Theon feels oddly like crying. “Maester Luwin,” he says softly, and to his surprise and relief, the older man embraces him. 

“It’s good to see you again,” the maester says with a sincerity that touches Theon.

“And you.” He glances around at the others, his eye catching Sansa’s. She’s grown into a beautiful woman, almost her mother’s exact copy. Where she had been soft and smiling as a girl, though, she is now hard and serious.

_ The years have made all of us harder. _

“Theon,” she says tonelessly. 

“Your Grace,” he says with no small amount of uncertainty. 

She turns to his sister. “You must be Queen Asha.”

“I am.” Asha swaggers up to the table. “And you must be the Queen in the North.”

“I am.” Sansa pauses. “Thank you for joining us. And...for looking after my sister for so long.”

“Arya hardly needs looking after.”

Sansa allows the smallest quirk of her lip. “I suppose that’s true.”

“We are planning our attack,” Tyrion says with a touch of impatience. “Your Grace, Lord Theon, I think you know everyone here.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” says the man lingering near Sansa. “I’m Petyr Baelish, Lord Regent of the Vale.”

Theon feels his stomach turn. So, this is the man responsible for everything that happened to Jeyne. Keeping her locked up, whipping her, letting men rape her...this is the man that she is plotting even now to kill.

Petyr Baelish has a pointed face, offering an unpleasant smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Yes, he looks like the sort of man who would sell a child. Theon is tempted to draw his sword and kill the man now, and it is only the thought of leaving him for Jeyne’s satisfaction that stays his hand. That, and the way Asha and Arya both seem to subtly move in as if preparing to block Theon from vaulting forward.

“Oh,” Asha says with disinterest, moving towards the table. “So what is the plan?”

Dimly, Theon is aware of Jon talking, but he can only stare at the map, his heart pounding. Baelish is  _ right there. _ The man who tormented Jeyne, who gave her those scars and nightmares, is so close Theon can smell the mint on his breath. It makes him sick. He wants to kill him. He wants, at the very least, to demand he answer for his crimes. How can he just stand there and act as if he hadn’t taken a child to a brothel and sold her to every lecher who came knocking?

As soon as the meeting is adjourned, Theon starts to stumble away, but Maester Luwin lays a hand on his arm. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he says softly.

Theon blows out a breath. “I think I might’ve.”

The maester chuckles. “Come, have a drink with me. I want to hear what you’ve been up to. That, and I need help getting up these stairs.” 

Theon welcomes the distraction, helping Maester Luwin up the winding steps to his tower. The old man is getting older, and he moves slower than he used to. Theon tactfully decides not to comment on it, but Maester Luwin huffs out a laugh and says, “These stairs get a little harder to climb every day. Soon I shall need someone to carry me up and down. Osha has offered several times, and I’ve always refused out of pride...but I may have to start taking her up on it.”

“How is Osha?” Theon asks, remembering the wildling woman.

“Oh, she’s as well as ever, and fiercely protective over Rickon. But talking and walking take my breath away; tell me how  _ you _ have been.”

So while Theon helps Maester Luwin up the stairs and into his solar, he tells him briefly of his adventures, sparing some of the more unsavory details. The old man listens with interest, and when he’s recovered his breath, asks questions about the places Theon has visited and the things he’s seen. 

“I never thought I’d come back here,” Theon confides. 

“Nor did I,” Maester Luwin says wryly. “But I’m glad you found your way back.”

Theon hesitates. “Bran and Rickon...they were happy to see me.”

“They don’t harbor you any ill will. Well, not anymore. It was difficult at first, seeing how the Boltons razed Winterfell to the ground...but once we learned of the Red Wedding, it became apparent that the Boltons were going to turn on the Starks no matter what. At least this way Bran and Rickon were spared.” The old man’s lips twist ironically. “So you taking Winterfell saved them, in a way. If they hadn’t been hiding in the crypts, they almost certainly would have been put to the sword by the Boltons, if not then, then at another time.”

Theon shakes his head. “Even so, I—”

“It’s in the past,” Luwin says gently. “Bran and Rickon are safe, and you are a welcome guest here. There’s no need to dwell on buts and what ifs.”

Theon nods. The old man is right. None of that matters now. 

They talk for a while longer, mostly about the past, but sometimes about the future, too. It feels good, to talk to the person who helped him when it felt like no one else would. 

When the sky begins to darken, Theon helps the maester down the stairs to the great hall, where he dines beside wildlings. They are a loud and merry bunch, and Theon finds himself having a good time. 

When he finishes his meal and heads back to his tent, he stops to look back at the great keep. It doesn’t seem so intimidating anymore, so full of ghosts as it once had. 

Winterfell will never truly be his home again, but neither is it a place for him to fear. And who knows? Maybe he will visit again someday.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter, but it's one that I have been itching to write from the beginning, so I hope you like it.

On the morning that the armies are to depart for the Wall, Sansa pulls Littlefinger aside.

“I need to talk to you,” she tells him in a low, urgent voice.

Surprise cracks the normally cool, calm mask. She’s been cold to him lately, and they both know it. Not that she can be blamed for keeping him at arm’s length after selling her to the Boltons...and for everything else. 

“Of course,” he says at last, recovering himself. 

“Not here.” She glances around the corridor, where a thousand listening ears are coming and going. She jerks her head, gesturing for him to follow her. 

He does, both of them walking through the winding maze of corridors, out of the keep, across the yard, and down the dark stairs of the crypts. Sansa leads him all the way to Father’s statue, and only here does she finally turn to look at him.

“So secretive,” Littlefinger murmurs, a glint in his eye. 

Sansa presses her palms together, trying not to let her nerves show. “Do you remember my friend Jeyne Poole?”

His face stills, but she can see his mind working furiously to try and figure out what’s going on. He’s clearly hoping she’ll elucidate, but she doesn’t. She just stands there and waits for him to speak. He clears his throat. “Yes.”

“I thought you might.” Sansa can barely hide her contempt now. “She’s here at Winterfell, you know.”

The pulse in his neck is visible even from here. “Is she?”

“She is. She told me the most horrible things. About you.” Sansa’s voice turns cold. “You like selling girls to men who mistreat them, don’t you?”

He stumbles forward a step. “Sansa--” But he doesn’t get to finish, because Jon and Theon emerge from the shadows just then, gripping Littlefinger’s arms. “Sansa, wait, I can explain--” 

Jon and Theon wrench his arms until they make a horrible cracking sound, and then his screams are echoing off the crypt walls. Arya and Jeyne emerge from the shadows, too, standing beside Sansa and watching as Jon and Theon drag him to the opposite wall. They tie his wrists together and bind him to the torch bracket above. 

“Sansa,” he blubbers all the way, “please, let me explain--”

“Better break his legs, too,” Theon decides.

“What a good idea, Theon,” Jon says pleasantly, and the crypts fill with more of Littlefinger’s screams.

Not that it matters; the only people to ever come down here are Starks. Littlefinger can scream all he likes.

Even so, the noise begins to grate on Sansa’s nerves. “Gag him,” she says with disgust. “His screams annoy me.”

Theon rips off the hem of Littlefinger’s velvet tunic, tying it around his head. He keeps crying out, but the noise is blissfully dulled.

Jeyne slips forward, crouching down to look Littlefinger in the eye. “Remember me?” she asks sweetly. 

His eyes widen in horror, his gagged mouth trying to form her name.

“That’s right. I’ve been waiting a long time for this day, my lord. I can’t wait to pay you back for the kindness you once showed me.”

Fresh tears slide down his cheeks, and Jeyne clucks her tongue as she wipes them from his cheeks. “Now, now, Petyr, remember what you always told me: you mustn’t ruin a pretty face with tears. Remember your Lysene songbird?”

He cries harder at that.

“Careful, Petyr; too much of that and I’ll have to whip you to teach you a lesson. Those scars never fade, you know.”

He sobs around his gag, his limbs useless as he chokes himself with tears. Satisfied, Jeyne stands up, brushing off her skirt. “Well, shall we go?” she asks brightly, leading the others out of the crypts.

She’s so different from the girl Sansa used to know...but then, so is Sansa. Everyone is so different from the people they used to be. 

In the yard, Sansa hugs Jon and Arya goodbye, her heart tightening as she sends them off to battle. Rickon had wanted to go too, but she had convinced him to stay behind as her protector.

At long last, Jon mounts his horse, leading the army out the gate. Theon rides beside his sister, an enormous goldenheart bow slung over his shoulder; Jeyne stands beside Sansa, tears rolling down her cheeks as she watches him go. 

Sansa does not consider herself an emotional person these days, but instinctively, she takes Jeyne’s hand in hers. The two women stand there until the last horse has left, and only then does Sansa take a deep breath. 

“Come,” she says, leading Jeyne inside. “We have so much to talk about.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another short but hopefully satisfying chapter!

Jeyne and Sansa spend the next few days catching up the way they had not been able to until now. They had only been able to share whispered moments hidden in the godswood before, always arranged by Arya. Baelish could not know that Jeyne was here, or that she and Sansa were talking, or it would have ruined everything.

But their plan worked, and now Jeyne doesn’t have to hide anymore. She walks through Winterfell freely, staying close to Sansa’s side as she had a lifetime ago. 

Her friend is so different, so unlike the fanciful little girl who’d left Jeyne in the tower room all those years ago. That Sansa had only wanted to be Joffrey’s beautiful queen. Now, Joffrey is dead and she is queen in her own right. She is as beautiful as she’d always wanted to be, but strong and fierce, too. She tells Jeyne everything about her life in the Red Keep, about Baelish ferrying her away to the Vale, about how he’d killed her aunt and sold her to Ramsay Bolton. She tells Jeyne, too, about the torment she’d endured with Ramsay, until a group of women who came with a bard named Abel helped her escape. She’d gone to the Wall to find Jon, and they began raising an army; when the Umbers heard, they joined the cause, bringing Rickon, whom they’d kept hidden all the while. When the Starks had retaken Winterfell and Sansa watched Ramsay’s dogs eat him alive, the Northern lords named her their queen. 

Jeyne tells her story, too, though Sansa already knows most of it from Arya. She listens patiently, and when Jeyne has finished, her friend takes her hand and swears, “He will pay for it.”

“Oh, I know he will,” Jeyne says pleasantly. “I intend to make him suffer.”

And she does. 

She checks on Lord Baelish once a day, removing his gag long enough to dump some water and gruel down his throat. 

“Jeyne, please,” he always begs until she silences him with the gag again. 

It gives her a sinister sort of pleasure, to watch him beg and cry for his miserable life. How many times had she begged and cried for her own? And what had he told her?

_ You mustn’t ruin a pretty face with tears.  _

Septa Mordane had always said it was better to turn the other cheek, to let the Seven in their righteousness punish wrongdoers when the time was meet.

But Jeyne was named in the sight of the old gods, and she doesn’t have time to wait around for the Seven.

“I’ve imagined his death so many times I don’t even know where to start,” she confides to Sansa. They’ve taken to sharing a bed as they had years ago, holding each other like sisters, and it’s only here that Jeyne feels like she can tell Sansa the whole, ugly truth. “I’ve imagined killing him every way you can kill a person. But I can only do it once, so it has to be perfect.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Sansa tells her. “It just has to be...satisfying.”

Jeyne considers this. “Was that how you felt after you watched Ramsay’s dogs eat him?”

“As satisfied as I could be. His end was fitting, don’t get me wrong, and I  _ was _ satisfied, but nothing will ever make up for everything he did to me.” Sansa takes her friend’s hand. “I think it’s important to remember that...no amount of torture or killing is going to fill the hole in your heart.”

Jeyne lowers her eyes. “I know.”

“But...it will help. Knowing that he’s dead. That he can’t hurt anyone else.”

“I know,” she says again. “It’s how I felt after we killed Ser Meryn. But it’ll be different because I’ll be the one landing the killing blow, and I’m a lot angrier now than I was when we killed Ser Meryn. I think I was still...in shock from it all at the time. And I was afraid. I was so afraid.” She shakes her head. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of Lord Baelish. I think I was maybe still afraid when I walked into the crypts. But watching Theon and Jon break his bones and tie him up, watching him cry like I used to...he’s just a man. Just a pathetic little man whose moment in the sun has come to an end.”

“He is.”

She hesitates. “And you’re sure...it will be alright? With the Vale?”

“The lords of the Vale don’t like him,” Sansa assures her. “They’ve always wanted to get rid of him, but they never had an excuse. If we say he went missing, they won’t question it. They’ll just be happy he’s gone.”

Jeyne bites her lip. “I can’t imagine being so...awful, that so many people want you gone.”

“I can’t either. But those sorts of people always get theirs in the end, don’t they?”

“They do,” she says with no small amount of satisfaction. 

Sansa’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Whatever you do...it shouldn’t be quick. He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.”

“Why do you think I’m keeping him chained up in the crypts, staring at your father’s likeness?”

“I mean, the killing blow...it should take a while. So you can watch his life slip away from him, so he knows that he’s dying, and you’re watching, and nothing he can do can change it.” 

Jeyne smiles. “I like the sound of that.”

.

Seven days after he was brought to the crypts, Jeyne pays Lord Baelish a final visit. She descends the crypt stairs, gripping the knife Theon gave her so long ago on the  _ Esgred. _ She hadn’t known how to use it at the time...but she’s learned a thing or two since then.

Sansa follows at a distance, preferring to watch rather than participate. That’s fine with Jeyne. She finds herself oddly possessive, unwilling to share Lord Baelish’s murder with someone else. 

He’s weak and miserable when Jeyne takes the gag from his mouth, and she has a feeling he would cry if there was anything left in him. She squats before him, looking into his eyes. 

“Tell me something, Petyr. Why did you do it? Why did you put me in a brothel?”

He looks confused for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard her. 

“Why did you do it?” she repeats.

He licks his lips, chapped as they are. “Young girls are hard to find. And the trouble with young girls is that even when you find one that will make a sound investment, they always grow up and lose their value. I knew I would profit from a highborn girl like you, and I would have the queen’s thanks for keeping you until such time as she needed you, if that day ever came.”

It sickens Jeyne, to hear herself talked about this way.  _ A sound investment. Lose their value.  _ It makes her sound like a piece of jewelry. Not that Baelish ever treated her like anything other than an object. 

Part of her wants to ask him if he ever felt any remorse...but another part of her knows that he didn’t. The only remorse he feels now is being caught. If she let him go now, he’d just keep hurting people the way he’s always been hurting them, if it meant he’d get ahead in life.

“The pain you’ve felt the last few days,” she tells him now, “is nothing compared to what I endured for two years in your brothel. If I had more patience, I’d keep you here like this for two years.” She flips the knife in her hand. “But I don’t have any patience. I’ve been waiting a long time to kill you, Petyr, and I’m going to have what I want.”

“You don’t have to,” he tries to tell her, his eyes growing desperate. “We could--”

“No. I’m done talking to you. There is nothing you could possibly do now to change my mind.”

“Please, Jeyne, I--”

“I said I’m done talking to you.” She slashes his thigh in the place Arya showed her what feels like a lifetime ago, repeating the exact same words Arya had said then. “Once you nick this artery, there’s no un-nicking it.”

Baelish screams as blood spills out of his leg, staining his soiled clothes and spreading over the stone.

Jeyne leans back, arms folded over her knees as she watches him. 

“Please,” he begs, “please, Jeyne, don’t let me die like this--”

“Oh, I’m afraid I have no choice,” she says sweetly. “You see, there really is no undoing what I’ve done. You’re going to die. It will take a few painful minutes, but I assure you, not even the most skilled maester could save you now. So go on. Scream if you like. No one’s going to help you.” She props her chin in her hand. “It’s just you and me, Petyr.”

It is a loud, bloody, and painful looking death. It does indeed take minutes, and Baelish screams through every second of them...but as the blood seeps out of him, so does his life, until there is nothing left but a pale corpse. 

Jeyne stands up, ignoring the slight tremble in her legs. She cleans her knife on the shoulder of his once-fine tunic and then joins Sansa, taking the other woman’s hand and letting her lead them up into daylight. 

When their eyes meet, they smile. 


	33. Chapter 33

The journey to the Wall is too cold and long for Theon’s taste. He’s never been this far north, and the cold winds and frozen snows seem to be constantly upon them. He sleeps under a pile of furs and still feels the cold, and even when he drinks boiled water to keep warm, the relief is only fleeting. 

“It’s the Army of the Dead,” Jon tells him when he finally voices his irritation. “They bring the cold. I’ve seen them summon up white mists and snowstorms; they’re letting us know they’re here.”

“Wonderful,” Theon snaps. 

He’s not the only one suffering; Asha and Daenerys are absolutely miserable in so much cold, and even the dragons seem to hate it here. At least  _ they _ can summon fire, and Asha and Daenerys can keep each other warm under the furs. Theon sleeps alone. He daydreams often of climbing into a warm bed beside a roaring fire with Jeyne. It is perhaps the only thing that makes him push himself forward, knowing that the sooner they defeat this Army of the Dead, the sooner he can climb into a warm bed in Winterfell with her.

At long last, the Wall rises up over the horizon, and even from a distance Theon can see how enormous the thing is. Miles of solid ice form a barrier between the land of the living and the land of the dead. The Wall was built eight thousand years ago to protect the living from the dead, but now they’re really going to put it to the test. 

They reach Castle Black in the dead of night, and if Theon thought there would be some respite in the keep, he was sorely mistaken; the rooms in the keeps fill up quickly, even in the rundown towers, and most of the men are forced to camp outside in their tents. 

“How am I supposed to fight the Army of the Dead if I’m freezing to death?” he complains to his sister, who will, of course, be sharing a warm bed in a warm room with Daenerys. 

“You can sleep in our room,” she jests, “but you’ll want to cover your ears.”

“I hate you.”

Asha laughs as she walks away, but Jon, sitting nearby, approaches Theon with an awkward clearing of his throat. “You can sleep in my room, if you like.”

Theon stares at him. “Really?”

“Yes. There’s only one bed, but...I know it’s bloody cold, and your southerner’s blood is thin.”

“I grew up in Winterfell same as you, Snow,” Theon retorts before he can help it.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so you won’t mind sleeping out in the cold, then?”

“No, no, I mind,” Theon corrects quickly. “I...thank you, Jon.” 

Jon nods. 

So Theon finds himself lying beside Jon in a bed that was made for one man, not two. Giving up any hope of trying to sleep without touching each other, the two men lie cramped together, hips and shoulders pressed uncomfortably close. 

“You know what this makes me think of?” Jon asks.

“What?”

“That winter there was a storm and the whole castle was shaking with it. We both ended up in Robb’s bed, squeezing together to stay warm.”

Theon laughs. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“You kept telling us you had worse storms on the Iron Islands--”

“--and you huffed and puffed about how it wasn’t the same thing--”

“--and you finally got so mad you took your pillow and started beating me with it.”

“Well, you deserved it,” Theon tells him. “You were being a little shit.”

“So were you.”

“Aye, but I was  _ always _ a little shit, everyone  _ expected  _ it of me. No one expected it of you, Ned Stark’s perfect little son.”

“Perfect?” Jon repeats in confusion. “I was never the perfect son.”

“No?” Theon asks wryly. “You always did the right thing. Robb and I got up to mischief all the time, but you never did.”

“That doesn’t mean I was perfect.”

“You were, though,” he argues. “Everyone loved you. Except Lady Catelyn, of course, but she was the only one.”

Jon huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “People didn’t  _ love _ me, they...tolerated me. I was a mistake that my father was honorable enough to own up to.” He pauses for a moment. “I was jealous of you, you know.”

“No you were not.”

“I was! I felt like you...belonged more than I did.”

“Horseshit,” Theon declares, “at least you were a Stark.”

“I’m not a Stark, I’m a Snow.”

“Your father’s blood runs through your veins the same as your brothers and sisters,” Theon dismisses. “I never had that. I was a prisoner my whole life. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice prison as far as they go, and I loved your family...but I was never really part of them. My life depended on my father, who never even...he didn’t care. About me. I was dead to him the same as my brothers.”

Jon is quiet for a long moment. “Have we spent all these years being jealous of each other for no reason?”

Theon shakes his head. “I think we might have.”

They’re quiet again, and then they both break into laughter. 

“Is that why you took Winterfell?” Jon asks, but there’s no malice in his tone. “Because you felt like you didn’t belong there so you wanted  _ it _ to belong to  _ you _ ?”

“I think,” Theon says slowly, “that’s the best way anyone’s ever put it.”

Jon’s quiet, thinking. “Stannis offered Winterfell to me. When he rode north to the Wall. I thought my brothers and sisters were dead, we all did, and he offered to legitimize me and make me Jon Stark, Warden of the North if I supported him.”

“Can kings pardon men from the Wall?”

“No. Which is why I refused.”

“There you go, always doing the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier and more tempting.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Jon admits. “There were times...I thought of accepting his offer. I’d always wanted to be a Stark for true, you know? And to be Lord of Winterfell...it was an honor I’d never dreamed of. But at the same time, I didn’t want to be Lord Stark for the sake of being Lord Stark, I wanted Winterfell because I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else ruling our home.” He shakes his head. “But my duty was to the Watch. I swore an oath. Even if Stannis handed me Winterfell and a lordship on a silver platter and no one ever said a word about it...how could I live with myself, knowing I broke an oath for a title?”

“What changed?”

“I died,” Jon says simply.

“Right, you died.”

Jon glances at him. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do, but I think it’s because I’m...numb. White walkers are back, dragons are back, Arya was training with the Faceless Men, people are being brought back from the dead, why the fuck not?”

“The world is a lot bigger and stranger than we were prepared for,” he agrees. 

They talk for a while longer with an openness they hadn’t had until now. Theon tells Jon about his life since they parted, and Jon tells him about his own adventures at and beyond the Wall. Theon is amazed to hear that Jon fell in love with a wildling girl, and broke his vows to lie with her.

“You loved her?”

“I did,” Jon says sadly. “She died in my arms. I don’t think I could ever love another person that way.” 

“I’m sorry,” Theon says sincerely. “I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

“I’m glad you don’t have to.” Jon clears his throat, attempting some levity. “But if I’m being honest, I can’t imagine  _ you _ being in love either, let alone with  _ Jeyne Poole. _ ”

“It came as a surprise to me too,” Theon says wryly.

“But you really do love her?”

“I really do. I can’t imagine a life without her. Once the war is won and we’re back on the Iron Islands, I’m going to make her my wife and give her dozens of fat little babies.”

Jon laughs. “You’ve changed, Greyjoy.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Jon is quiet for a moment. “Your sister and...Queen Daenerys…”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well.”

“Our kingdoms will never go to war,” Theon says cheerfully. 

Jon hesitates. “Is...Arya…?”

“Is she what?”

“Does she like...women?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’ve spent more time with her than I have.”

“I don’t know. She’s never said anything one way or the other.”

“Well, it’s just, she dresses just like your sister--”

“So she must eat fish pie too, is that what you’re saying?”

“I don’t know!”

“She’s like a little sister to me too, so I try not to think about her eating...whatever it is she wants to eat. But isn’t she sharing a room with that blacksmith?”

Jon freezes. “Gendry?”

“Aye, that’s the one.”

Jon starts to get out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To murder a blacksmith.”

“Ah, let ‘em have their fun,” Theon says, grabbing Jon before he can go through with it. “Arya can more than take care of herself. And if she’s going to do it, now would be the time, wouldn’t it? The night before the big battle?”

Jon lies back down, frowning. “I suppose so.” 

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

“Do you...do you think we’ll win? Honestly?”

Jon hesitates. “Honestly...I don’t know. That’s the problem with these things, is that there’s  _ so much _ we don’t know. Most enemies, you know where they come from and what they want. You know what weapons they have, what they’re likely to do. And you know that the battle will end when one side surrenders, and if you’re on the surrendering side, you know you’ll walk away with your life. But with the dead...there’s none of that. We don’t know where they come from or what they want, we don’t know what they’re capable of, we don’t know what will make it end. All we know is that there is no surrender, no quarter, only death, and to be dead means to be a footsoldier in their army.

Despite the warmth in the room, and especially the warmth of the man beside him, Theon shivers. He can still hear the screeches of that  _ thing _ in the dungeons of Dragonstone. To face  _ thousands _ of those…

“We should sleep,” Jon says suddenly, wearily. “There’s so much to do in the morning.”

“You expect me to sleep after telling me all that?” Theon humphs, but he  _ is _ tired after the long journey. 

“I’m sorry, would you prefer a bedtime story? Some warm milk, perhaps?”

“No, I’d prefer a cuddle,” Theon jokes, slinging an arm over Jon.

“Fuck you.”

“If you insist.”

They wrestle for a moment, feeling like children at Winterfell again, before finally collapsing against the bed, laughing. Theon drifts to sleep with a smile on his face.

.

He wakes a few hours later to the sound of a horn blasting. Jon is already leaping out of the bed, reaching for his clothes.

“What’s going on?” Theon asks sleepily.

“One blast for rangers returning,” Jon says mechanically, pulling on his boots. A second horn sounds. “Two blasts for wildlings.”

The horn blows a third time.

“And three blasts?”

Jon looks grave. “White walkers.”

Theon sits up, feeling sick. “You mean...they’re here?”

“Aye. They’re here.”

.

The once sleepy Castle Black is now alive with activity as the men prepare for battle. Some men take a giant lift up to the top of the Wall while most of the others climb the zigzagging stairs. Theon, Asha, Jon, and Arya take the lift up to the top, packed in with captains and leaders. Theon grips his goldenheart bow, letting out a shaky exhale. This bow has saved his life before; he prays it will do it again.

The wind at the top of the Wall is cold and bracing, like nothing Theon has ever felt before. Before him lies a dark and endless sea of black. It reminds him of those early days on the  _ Black Wind, _ when they were sailing for the Summer Islands and there was nothing around them for miles. He remembers thinking that if they drowned, if some creature from the deep sank their ships, no one would ever know. 

The same is true here atop the Wall. There are thousands of them, aye, but if the Army of the Dead takes them, it will be as if they never existed at all. 

He swallows, following Jon. The Wall is lined with brothers of the Night’s Watch, wildlings, Northmen, and Unsullied, all forming a single line. There are trebuchets and braziers, wooden ramps, small shelters for archers and men who need to sit by the fire a moment.

Not that anyone is going to be sitting tonight.

Theon tries to get a look at the enemy below, but in truth, he can see nothing through the thick white fog that hovers over the ground like a cloud. Some trick of the dead, he thinks. 

“I can’t see a fucking thing,” Asha complains, echoing his thoughts. 

“That’s the idea,” Jon mutters, and then nods at two of the men of the Night’s Watch looking to him for orders.

The men load an enormous ball of twine onto the ramp, setting a torch to its top. They release the ball as it catches fire; it tumbles down the ramp and arcs through air, breaking up the fog below. Through gaps in the fog, Theon can see what looks like a forest...but as the fiery ball of twine lands in the forest and sets it afire, he realizes that those aren’t trees, they’re wights. Even from up here, their pained shrieks rent the air, echoing off the Wall.

Jon nods at one of the brothers of the Night’s Watch, who stands on a platform and waves two torches. A shout goes up, and more balls of twine are loaded onto the ramps and set aflame before they arc down into the teeming mass of wights below. 

For a long moment, it seems as if the Army of the Dead is just standing there, doing nothing. But then Theon sees movement...clambering up along the Wall.

But it isn’t just wights that he sees; these things, whatever they are, are enormous, and they move far too quickly to be even a wight. 

“The fuck are those?” Asha wants to know, frowning.

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen them before.”

Theon nocks an arrow tipped in obsidian; he lets the arrow fly, and it meets one of the crawling, clambering things with a shriek. The thing shatters, but its comrades climb ever higher, and when they are close enough for the army of the living to see, they cry out in alarm, for the things are ice spiders big as hounds, just like in Old Nan’s stories. 

“ARCHERS!” Jon shouts, and Theon is one of many who releases arrows.

Like the pale, blue-eyed white walkers that ride them, the ice spiders thankfully shatter from obsidian and flame, and most of them fall before they can reach the top of the Wall.

Some, however, manage to avoid the cascade of arrows, and when they climb over the top of the Wall, they rear up with a whistling shriek, their legs coming down hard on the men who are unlucky enough to be in the way. A few fall over the other side of the Wall, frightened and slipping on ice, and still more are either stabbed by the ice-like spears carried by the white walkers or are hurled over the side. Theon curses, knowing that every man who dies is just going to rise up again in a few moments as a wight. 

Indeed, some of the men on the top of the Wall are turned then and there, their blue eyes glowing as they turn on their brothers in arms. Dragonglass blades and Valyrian steel swords are drawn, cutting down the men before kicking what’s left of them over the side. A giant ice spider bearing a white walker comes hurtling towards Theon and Asha; he fires an arrow at the spider, and though it shatters like a thousand pieces of ice, the white walker riding it lands on his feet. One wildling raises a dragonglass knife, but the white walker wraps his hand around the man’s throat, lifting him off the ground while his other hand grips the man’s wrist. Theon looses another arrow, and Asha and Arya rush to steady the man lest he topple from the sudden release.

“I thought you said the white walkers couldn’t pass the Wall!” Arya shouts at her brother.

“I didn’t think they could!” Jon protests. “But maybe…”

Maybe they can, and maybe they’re a lot more fucked than they realized.

A familiar call sounds from above, and Theon looks up to see Daenerys’s dragons passing overhead before nosediving towards the Army of the Dead below. The dragons open their mouths, setting the army ablaze. The wights’ shrieks can be heard even from up here, and the soldiers atop the Wall cheer as they watch the wights fall. 

Their moment of victory is short-lived, for it soon becomes apparent that the Army of the Dead has no shortage of ice spiders. Not only that, but wights are starting to climb the Wall behind the spiders, and though they do not move as fast as the beasts, it will not be long before they’ve reached the top. More balls of twine are launched, but they do not have an endless supply, and the balls only land in the crowd and do nothing to deter the wights and spiders scaling the Wall. 

Drogon wheels overhead, drawing up close to the top of the Wall. Daenerys shouts, “Will fire harm the Wall?”

“Aye!” Jon shouts back. “Better not risk it!”

Daenerys wheels the dragon away, nosediving for the Army of the Dead again. 

“If the dragons can take on the ground army, we just need to deal with the ones climbing the Wall,” Jon tells the others. 

“Oh, is that all?” Asha grunts, driving her sword into a wight clawing its way to the top. 

The wights and ice spiders climbing the Wall do seem to increase in number, almost as if they’ve realized that the dragons won’t touch them up here. Jon is loathe to damage the Wall, which Theon understands; if they weaken the Wall and make it easier for the Army of the Dead to take it down, all Seven Kingdoms are fucked.

“Our best bet is to take down the white walkers,” Jon tells them. “When a white walker dies, so do all the wights they’ve turned.”

“How many white walkers are there?” 

Jon hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Theon soon learns that there must be a lot of them, because even the ones they do take down don’t seem to make a difference; even though they take down a few white walkers and what Theon imagines are at least a few hundred wights, the ice spiders and wights keep killing men to fill their ranks. 

“Where are they all coming from?!” Arya screams in exasperation. “What’s Daenerys  _ doing?” _

“Her best!” Asha snaps.

Daenerys, to her credit, is not idle; she and her dragons are skimming over the Army of the Dead, flooding them with fire. The problem is that the white walkers keep conjuring up thick fogs and rough gales of wind, throwing the dragons off course and deflecting their fire. 

And then comes a horrible shrieking sound, and when Theon peers below, he sees the smallest of the three dragons plummeting to the ground, dark red blood raining from his side. Beside him, Asha draws in a sharp breath, watching as the dragon disappears below a thick fog. 

Despite the wights crawling up the Wall, despite the battle raging all around them, everything seems to still for a moment.

“Her dragon,” Arya says quietly. “They killed him.”

The other two dragons screech, calling out for their brother, but a slender spear of ice sails in the air, narrowly missing Drogon. The dragons screech again, pulling up and away from the army. 

“God,” Asha murmurs, “we’re fucked.”


	34. Chapter 34

With the loss of one dragon, Daenerys is understandably reluctant to risk the other two. Drogon and Rhaegal retreat to the other side of the Wall, leaving the wights on the ground to clamber up the ice.

It feels like hours go by, yet dawn never breaks. Theon is exhausted, his arms and legs sore, his arrows running low, but still the night does not end. 

“You should rest,” Jon tells him, his voice hoarse from shouting.

Theon shakes his head. “It’s only been a few hours.”

Jon looks at him incredulously. “Theon, it’s well past noon.”

Theon blinks.  _ “Noon? _ But it’s still dark…”

“It’s the  _ Long Night,” _ Arya tells him. “It happened once before, and now it’s happening again.”

Theon raises an aching arm to wipe his brow. That explains the exhaustion, and the dwindling supply of arrows. But…

“I can’t rest until the Army of the Dead has been defeated.”

“I think we’re going to have to take it in turns,” Jon says grimly. “If they keep up like this, we’ll be too exhausted to fight, but they never tire.” He kicks back a wight, nodding at Theon. “You go on, get some rest. Take Arya with you.”

“I’m  _ fine. _ ”

“Go,” Jon barks. “At least for a couple hours. Eat, sleep, fill your arrows, and come back to give more men a rest.”

“I should check on Daenerys,” Asha says, and only then is Arya convinced to leave. Jon sends more men with them, a blend of wildlings, Northmen, and men of the Night’s Watch; the Unsullied are nearly inexhaustible, and fight as hard as they did at the beginning of the battle. The men and women taking a rest take the lift down, spilling out into the courtyard of Castle Black. The noises of battle are distant from here, little more than whistling on the wind. 

There are only a handful of people at the castle, young boys and old men who wouldn’t be much for fighting. The young boys run to fetch them bread, stew, and ale, and then to carve out more arrowheads from the blocks of obsidian brought from Dragonstone. 

Asha finds Daenerys in the King’s Tower, where the queen has taken refuge from the battle. Theon drags himself to the room he shared with Jon, splaying aching limbs over the bed before an uneasy sleep takes him.

.

He sleeps harder than he means to, jolted from sleep by one of the young boys shaking him. 

“There are men and women approaching, milord.”

“Approaching?” he asks blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Men and women on horse, milord, riding for Castle Black.”

Reserves? Theon wonders. Wildling men and women late to the battle? “Who are they? Do you know?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, but they were all in red.”

Theon raises his eyebrows as he pulls on his swordbelt. “All in red? That’s the color of their banners, you mean?”

“No, milord. They’re all wearing red robes and cloaks.”

Red robes and cloaks...almost like…

Theon bolts down the stairs.

.

The army of red-robed men and women is thundering through the gate as Theon exits out into the courtyard. These are indeed priests of R’hllor, men and women from all over the world with red robes and red rubies at their throats and wrists. Daenerys, who has come down from the King’s Tower, greets them in Valyrian. 

Theon joins his sister, who’s watching them skeptically.

“I don’t like this,” she mutters. “Remember the last red priest we ran into?”

“Aye, but what if they’re here to help?”

Asha snorts. “The way Moqorro helped Victarion?”

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a hand like his against the Army of the Dead.”

Arya joins them, her eyes narrowed. “I know that woman.”

“Which one?”

She jerks her head at a woman with ivory skin and red everything else; her red eyes land on Arya and she smiles knowingly. 

Arya strides up to the other woman, snapping, “What are you doing here?” 

“The night is dark and full of terrors, child; but the fire burns them all away.” The red woman dismounts with the other priests of R’hllor.

“They’re here to help,” Daenerys explains to the others. 

“Well,” Theon says grimly, “we can sure use it.”

.

The red priests ascend to the top of the Wall, looking warm despite the lack of furs and the wintry storm buffeting them. Jon sends more men down to rest and to make way for the hundreds of men and women joining their ranks. 

Theon, Asha, and Arya climb up the stairs, leaving the red priests to take the cage. The three of them remember Moqorro all too well, and had elected to avoid his comrades as much as possible, even if they are here to help.

Some of the fighting men are taking the stairs down, passing them on the way. 

“What are they doing up there?” Theon asks a wildling, who shakes his head.

“Fuck if I know.”

“That’s reassuring,” Asha mutters as they keep walking. 

Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal take to the skies once more, braced for battle. Daenerys’s grief had been palpable, but there will be time for grieving later, when the war is won.

If it can be won by the living.

They reach the top of the Wall to a wondrous sight--the red priests standing in a line, hands joined and robes afire, yet they do not burn. Behind them, archers stand on benches and sit on the icy crenellations, arrows nocked; if an ice spider or wight tries to get through the flaming men and women, a dragonglass arrow takes them out. Seeing that it is useless to fight, the wights draw back, and the army of the living has a few blissful moments of peace while the Army of the Dead tries to regroup. 

Theon finds Jon, who looks relieved to see him.

“You get some rest?”

“Some.” Theon jerks his head in the general vicinity of the Army of the Dead. “So what now?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Jon asks wryly. “We can’t hold them off forever; they’re smarter than they look, and they’ll find a way through the red priests.”

As if summoning them, the Wall suddenly shudders.

“What was that?” Jon asks sharply.

Slowly, the red priests drop their hands, the flames on their robes fading to embers.

“You had better look, Lord Snow,” says the red woman Arya knows.

Theon follows Jon, peering over the edge of the Wall.

Daenerys’s dead dragon, Viserion, flies again...but there is a pale figure on his back, and when he breathes fire at the Wall, it’s blue.

“Gods be good,” Jon murmurs. “They raised the dragon from the dead.”

The Wall shudders again as Viserion tries to burn his way through the ice, and Jon nearly topples over the side; Theon grabs him, pulling him back. 

Drogon and Rhaegal swoop at their brother, screeching and flapping their wings to draw him away from the Wall. The wights, unwilling to climb up a Wall that they’re trying to tear down, watch from the ground, while the men and women atop the Wall can only gaze helplessly at the battle. Theon nocks an arrow, waiting for the dragon to get closer, but he’s having no luck; Viserion and his rider avoid the top of the Wall, clearly knowing what awaits them. 

“His head,” Arya says suddenly. “I remember it. It’s like a crown. He’s their leader, isn’t he?”

“The Night King, we call him,” Jon says grimly. 

Arya thinks for a minute. “If killing a white walker kills all the wights that he raised...does killing the Night King kill all the white walkers?”

Jon looks sharply at his sister. “I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out.”

Asha shakes her head. “If that’s true, you won’t be able to kill him. He’ll know what his death means.”

“And yet, there he is, fighting Daenerys and her two dragons with his one,” Theon points out. 

“The one that he killed, you mean. If Daenerys isn’t careful, he’ll kill her and her dragons too.”

Daenerys is managing well enough on her own, but she had been managing on her own earlier, too, and they’d killed her dragon. 

She seems to realize this, because she keeps the dragons as high off the ground as she can, avoiding the danger of a spear from below. Viserion keeps attempting to return to the Wall, but Drogon and Rhaegal are relentless in their attacks, snapping their jaws and reaching out with their talons. Being of equal size and strength, the dragons cannot really hurt each other, it seems, but the attacks on Viserion are making it impossible for him to focus on the Wall. He snaps his jaws and blows blue flames, but his brothers will not stop.

Something seems to snap in the dragon, or maybe his undead rider, because he finally whirls away from the Wall, pursuing Drogon. The black dragon turns, pelting away while Rhaegal swoops in on Viserion from first this side, then that. Drogon reaches the top of the Wall, Daenerys clinging to his back and shouting something Theon cannot hear.

But he doesn’t need to hear. He sees Viserion and the horned white walker on his back draw closer, blue eyes narrowed at Daenerys.

Theon acts without thinking, nocking a dragonglass arrow in his goldenheart bow and loosing it right as the dead dragon and rider pass him.

The Night King, as Jon calls him, shatters into a thousand shards of pure white ice. Viserion shatters beneath him, blue ice mingled with white before they tumble to the ground below, where the Army of the Dead melts into the ground. The winds and snows come to a sudden halt, and the only sounds Theon can hear are the flap of dragon wings and his own breathing. 

And then there’s shouting and cheering as the living realize the battle is won and the dead defeated. Asha grabs her brother, hugging him so tight she nearly cracks a rib.

“You did it! You saved us! My baby brother saved the world!”

“No,” Theon says dumbly. “I didn’t.”

“You did, you idiot! You killed the fucking Night King or whatever he’s called!”

He shakes his head, but he realizes that his sister is right. He killed the Night King. And by killing the Night King, he killed the white walkers and all their wights and dragons and ice spiders, and brought an end to the second Long Night.

“You’re the goddamn Last Hero reborn!”

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”


	35. Chapter 35

The journey back to Winterfell is a dismal blur of mud and snow. 

And cheering. Constant cheering. 

Daenerys should be cheering, too. The Army of the Dead has been defeated, and their losses were relatively few.

_ But I lost my child. _

That makes two children now. One born of her body, one born from Drogo’s funeral pyre. She had done the impossible to hatch her eggs, and her children have followed her from the Red Waste to the Wall.

_ And now one of them is dead. _

She had known there would be losses, and she had been prepared to grieve for those losses. But what could have possibly prepared her for Viserion’s death? Dragons are impossible to kill, everyone always says so. Fire made flesh, she had not even considered that the white walkers would be able to touch them.

The constant cheerfulness of the armies is jarring compared to her quiet sadness. She takes to the skies when she can bear the cold, preferring the company of her two remaining dragons to the men and women down below. 

She can’t even stand being around Asha anymore, and that makes her even sadder. She loves Asha, but the other woman is ecstatic that her brother saved the world, and Daenerys can’t fault her for that. At the same time, Asha’s ecstasy is so discordant with Daenerys’s need for quiet solemnity that she finds herself avoiding the other woman.

Asha seems to understand, but there’s no disguising the hurt on her face, and that only makes Daenerys feel worse. She wishes she could be happy, but how can she be knowing that Viserion died not just once, but twice?

She is so miserable and so eager for the journey to end that she almost doesn’t realize that its ending means having to spend days, maybe even weeks or months, holed up in Winterfell. It had been fit to bursting with people last time, and she knows this time will be no different. Though she’ll have warm chambers and every luxury the castle can afford, she’ll still be surrounded by people, loud, happy, boisterous people that she doesn’t even know if she can trust. She still has not come to an accord with Sansa Stark, and there’s no getting around it now. 

Daenerys wants to cry. She’s tired, she’s  _ so tired, _ and her conquest isn’t nearly finished. She will have to decide what to do with the North, whether to allow them to be their own separate country or to turn around and attack the men she’d fought beside at the Wall. 

And there’s still Cersei to contend with in the south. She is not  _ as _ worried about Cersei, who has no choice now but to surrender (assuming she has not in their absence), but the woman could still present a problem. 

It’s been years, but Daenerys still thinks of the house with the red door sometimes, that faraway place that’s so far back in her memory that it may as well be a dream. Was there ever a time she was that happy, carefree girl? Or was that just something she imagined on those cold, hungry, hopeless nights that haunted her youth?

“I wish this was over,” she says unthinkingly to Jorah.

“It soon will be,” he soothes. “Once you and Sansa Stark reach an agreement—“

“No, not that. I mean... _ all _ of this,” she tries to clarify. “This constant...reaching agreements and sieging cities and winning people’s trust and losing loved ones. I wish it was all over.”

“I’m afraid this will never be over,” he says gently. “This is what it means to be queen.”

“Then maybe I don’t want to be queen.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, but they come so easily that she knows this is a thought she’s had secretly before.

“It will get easier,” Ser Jorah tells her, but she doesn’t quite believe him. Her reign has barely begun and she’s already struggling to maintain it. How is she supposed to live the rest of her life like this? 

Sansa Stark greets them at Winterfell, her smile frozen in place when she sees Daenerys. Little wonder at that; though both queens joined forces for the battle against the dead, the dead have been defeated, and it will soon be time to decide what to do with the North. Daenerys is tempted to just give it to Sansa. She’s too tired to keep fighting, especially for a kingdom that doesn’t even want her. Maybe she should just let Sansa have the North, and Daenerys can be content with all the rest. 

_ Aegon and his sisters would not have approved, _ she can’t help thinking.

But she isn’t Aegon or his sisters. 

.

The wolf queen throws a feast in celebration of their victory. The three queens and Theon sit at the high table in places of honor, smiling as the attendees raise toast after toast. 

Daenerys’s smile is feigned, though she hopes no one notices. Even after a hot bath and a good night’s sleep in a real bed, the tiredness has not left her. It’s a tiredness she feels in her bones, one that she doesn’t think any amount of hot baths or sleep will cure. 

Sansa is seated in between Daenerys and Asha, which is her right as the hostess, but Daenerys has not failed to notice that it also makes her look like the most powerful of the three queens. Perhaps she is. There’s no denying that Asha is a strong warrior and has won the love of her men, but the ironborn are so different from the other Westerosi. Many of them seem to love Sansa, hanging on her every word and asking for her advice and seeming honored when she asks for their own. Daenerys senses that this is true devotion, not just a show put on for their sovereign. She herself can never be sure of where somebody’s loyalties lie. 

As hostess, Sansa sends choice dishes down the tables to select lords and ladies, remembering who likes what and who will be most flattered by her remembrance. When people come up to thank her, she makes a point of asking about their homes and their families, small details that Daenerys would never think of. 

“How do you do it?” she finds herself asking the other woman.

Sansa looks surprised. “Do what?”

“All of this.” Daenerys gestures to the room. “You make being queen look so...effortless.”

“I’m glad it looks that way,” Sansa says wryly. 

Daenerys turns more fully to face her. “So you find it difficult, too? Ruling?”

“Well, of course,” Sansa says, the most candid she’s ever been with Daenerys. “No one ever thinks it’s easy. If they do, they’re probably an idiot and they have advisers running things for them.”

“But the...feeling tired all the time...feeling like it’s never enough…”

“I think people who rule should feel that way,” Sansa says slowly. “Maybe not the being tired all the time, but...it should never feel like enough. No ruler should ever sit back and say, ‘I have done enough, and now I’m going to leave it.’ There’s always something that can be better.”

“I agree,” Daenerys says quietly.

The other woman glances at her. “Why do you want to be queen?”

Daenerys blinks. “It’s my right--”

“No, I mean, why do you  _ want _ to?”

Daenerys opens her mouth and closes it. “Well...I suppose I didn’t want to. I only knew I had to. The Usurper took the throne from my family, and it was my duty to take it back.”

“And Slaver’s Bay? Why did you conquer those cities?”

“Because...they were enslaved,” she says, confused. 

Sansa shifts in her seat. “What do you  _ like _ about being queen?”

No one has ever asked Daenerys that. Why should she like anything in particular about it? She’s a queen. What isn’t there to like?

“I like...having the power to help those who cannot help themselves,” she says slowly. 

“That’s very noble,” Sansa says gently, “but you don’t have to be a queen to help people.”

“No, but being queen helps.”

The other woman inclines her head. “It does.” Her blue eyes search Daenerys’s. “Are you feeling alright, Queen Daenerys?”

“In truth, I am weary,” Daenerys admits. “I find I cannot celebrate a victory won at the expense of one of my children.”

Sansa nods understandingly. “If you would like to go, I can make your excuses. You are not the only here suffering from weariness, I’ll wager.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to protest...and then finds herself saying, “That is most kind of you, Queen Sansa.”

Sansa offers her a small, reassuring smile. Relieved to be excused, Daenerys leaves the great hall, making her way up to her room. Blissfully alone, she undresses and climbs into her bed, grateful to not have to feign a smile any longer.

.

Daenerys avoids nearly everyone over the next few weeks, preferring to spend her time either with her dragons or in her room with Asha. Tyrion keeps trying to get her to speak with Sansa and discuss the Northern matter, but that is the last thing Daenerys feels like doing. She doesn’t want to rule, or discuss ruling, or do anything that isn’t riding her dragons or making love to Asha.

“The men need their rest,” she tells Tyrion whenever he presses her.

But as the days pass, the men become more rested, and soon they will be ready to march again, and Daenerys will have to decide where they are marching.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this,” Asha tells her one day, propping herself up on one elbow, “but we  _ are _ meant to be sieging a city.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Daenerys tells her childishly. She pushes Asha’s hair behind her ear. “If I wasn’t a queen, would you still love me?”

Asha raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”

Daenerys ignores that. “What would you do, if I wasn’t a queen? What would our life be like?”

Asha huffs out a laugh. “God, I don’t know. It would be whatever we wanted it to be. Where is this coming from?”

Daenerys doesn’t answer her.

“You having second thoughts about being queen?”

Daenerys doesn’t answer that, either.

Asha opens her mouth to say something, but she’s cut off by a knock at the door. 

“Who is it?” Daenerys calls.

“It’s Missandei, Your Grace. I have urgent news.”

That bodes ill. Daenerys climbs out of bed, pulling on her robe before answering the door.

Missandei is standing outside with a grave expression on her face. “Your Grace, we have had word from our armies in the south.”

“Well?” Daenerys asks, her nerves straining at the way Missandei won’t meet her eyes. “What is it?”


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end. It came on a bit suddenly, but as I was writing this chapter, I realized it had to end here.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

The ruins of King’s Landing are still smoking when the  _ Sea Bitch _ pulls into Blackwater Bay. Theon watches from the deck as the city comes into view...or what’s left of it, anyway.

They’d left Winterfell as soon as they received word from the southern armies; this time, Theon and Jeyne had gone by sea rather than horse. 

“What happened?” Asha asks as soon as they’ve rejoined the Iron Fleet.

“All was quiet for a long time,” Dagmer Cleftjaw says grimly. “No one came in or out of the city, no attacks from either camp. Some ravens slipped past the archers, but that was to be expected. We just thought it was a matter of time before the surrender. And then one morning, before the sun rose, we all woke up to this sound. The ships were rocking like they were in a storm. When we went up on deck, the city was covered in green smoke, and when it cleared, there was nothing left.”

Theon and Asha row to shore; Jeyne stays behind in the cabin, crying. She’s no stranger to death, but to see an entire city destroyed like that…

It’s not easy for Theon, either, who faced death itself only a few weeks ago. Even wearing a scarf over his nose and mouth, as Dagmer had urged him to do, the smoke is so noxious it threatens to choke him before he’s even reached the shore.

The Dothraki and the Reach armies that were sieging the city by land have already sifted through most of the wreckage. There were no survivors, and in fact, some of the Dothraki and Reach men had perished from the wildfire as well. 

There is no doubt in anyone’s minds that this was Cersei’s work. If she’d had enough wildfire to blow up the Great Sept of Baelor, why shouldn’t she have enough to blow up the whole city? 

And she’d had reason enough to do it. She’d had no choice but to surrender, but even then, she was too proud. So she’d given herself another choice: she’d destroyed the city, making it impossible for anyone to rule it--even her.

“One million people, dead because of one woman’s greed,” Asha murmurs. 

Theon has to stumble away, pulling down his scarf to retch. The smoke is too much, the smell of death is too much, all of this is  _ too much. _

.

Daenerys and the others arrive three days behind the Greyjoys. She asks the same questions over and over, her face wretched with despair.

Theon can hardly blame her; a massacre of this scale is unthinkable. What should they even do? How should they even do it?

Slowly, the queens and the lords paramount of each kingdom agree to congregate in the tourney fields outside the city. A crude dais is erected, with mismatched chairs and awnings made of everything from silk banners to tent canvases. 

No one quite knows how to start. There is so much to do, but what, and who will do it? Who will speak first?

It’s Tyrion who finally takes the initiative, clearing his throat as he gets up to stand in the center of the dais. “What has happened here,” he begins slowly, “is...a great tragedy. Westeros may well never recover from this. I think it prudent to ask what we will do with King’s Landing.”

“What we will do?” Ser Jorah Mormont asks, eyebrow raised.

Tyrion holds out his hands as if to concede his point. “The city is destroyed. King’s Landing was traditionally the capital of Westeros, where the sovereign was crowned and where most of the country’s trade took place. Are we going to rebuild the capital here? Or are we going to move the capital to another location? Dragonstone comes to mind as the birthplace of our queen, but there are certain advantages to having a more centralized capital--”

“I don’t want to be queen.”

Everyone turns to stare at Daenerys.

“Your Grace?” Sansa asks, confused.

Daenerys stands up. “I don’t want to be queen,” she says again, louder. “And in truth, I do not think I am the best queen for Westeros.”

Theon glances at his sister, whose eyes are wide. So, this is a surprise to her, too. 

“Daenerys,” Tyrion says in a low, urgent voice, but she shakes her head.

“You once told me that I wasn’t here to be queen of the ashes. But what is King’s Landing, if not ashes?”

“This isn’t what I meant--”

She turns to the others. “I freed the slaves of Slaver’s Bay. But there are many more thousands of slaves in the world who are not yet freed. They need me more than anyone in Westeros does.”

“So, you’re just...walking away? Just like that?” Sansa asks in disbelief. 

“Why not? What’s keeping me here? The Army of the Dead has been defeated, and I was never officially crowned.”

“Then who is to rule?” Tyrion asks with a note of irritation in his voice. 

“Sansa Stark.”

All heads turn to Sansa, who gapes at the dragon queen.  _ “Me?” _

“You,” Daenerys says calmly. “You are already Queen in the North, and you have the loyalty of the Riverlands and the Vale. You know more about southern politics than most actual politicians, I’d wager. And the question of Northern independence need not be an issue if the Queen in the North is also the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” She pauses. “But more importantly, you are a good queen.”

Oddly, it makes sense to Theon. Sansa  _ would _ be a good queen of the whole of Westeros, not just the North. She already has the Riverlands and the Vale; with Tyrion as Lord of Casterly Rock, she would have the Westerlands, too. The Stormlands and the Reach have no rulers as of yet, the main strength of the Crownlands was King’s Landing, which is now gone, and all she would need is Dorne’s support.

“Not that anyone has to take my suggestion,” Daenerys says, turning to the others. “But I think it would be the wise choice.”

“I think so, too,” Tyrion says softly. 

“And I.”

“And I.”

“And I.”

Asha glances at her brother. He gives her a nod, and she turns to the others. “The Iron Islands will support Sansa Stark as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Which leaves…

“Dorne will also support Sansa Stark as Queen,” Arianne Martell says.

Daenerys turns to Sansa. “Do you accept?”

Sansa looks around at all of them, blue eyes wide. Slowly, she nods. “I do.”

Daenerys sinks to her knee. “Long live the Queen.”

The others follow her example.  _ “Long live the Queen.” _

.

They don’t linger in the greenland longer than they have to. The Westerosi have plans to make; now that the wars are won, they have no need of the ironborn, and the ironborn are itching to go home. 

Home. It seems strange to think that at long, long last, they are finally going home. That Theon has a home to return to. After years spent at sea, sailing from this port to that and making his cabin his castle, he is finally going to a place where he’ll belong. 

“What about Daenerys?” he asks his sister.

Asha shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think she really knows, either. I’m giving her ships, but it won’t be enough for her armies. They’ll have to build more. And then…” She waves a vague hand. “Who knows? Liberate slaves, break more chains, kill more evil men, and once in a while our paths will cross and she won’t be able to walk for three days.”

“Poetic.”

“Isn’t it?” She smiles. “You ready to go home, baby brother?”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Aye. I’m ready to go home.”

.

They board the boats in mid-afternoon, preparing to sail on the evening tide. Daenerys and the Starks see them off, Asha and Daenerys sharing a long embrace while Arya, Sansa, and Jon say goodbye to Theon and Jeyne one by one. 

“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” he asks Arya. “You’d like the Iron Islands.”

She shakes her head. “My place is here, with my family. My other family.”

Theon tries to ignore the swelling in his heart. “Sure it has nothing to do with that blacksmith?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” he says with a grin, ruffling her hair before she ducks under his arm to hug Jeyne.

Sansa’s farewell is much more dignified, as befits a queen. 

“Robb would be proud,” he tells her softly, and he doesn’t miss the way she blinks the tears from her eyes. 

“He’d be proud of you, too,” she says, and now it’s his turn to blink back tears. 

Jon is the last to say his goodbyes, clasping Theon’s arm. “Safe travels, Greyjoy.”

“And you, Snow.”

They embrace like true brothers then, and Theon feels that swelling in his heart again. 

At last, he, Jeyne, and Asha climb down into the boat. The ironborn push off from the dock, rowing towards the Iron Fleet. 

Theon and Jeyne join Asha aboard the  _ Black Wind, _ greeted by the familiar faces of Hagen and his daughter, Cromm and Grimtongue, Droopeye Dale and Six-Toed Harl, Fingers and Rook, Earl Harlaw and Rolfe the Dwarf, Lorren Longaxe and Roggon Rustbeard. 

“Are you ready to go home?” Asha asks, and the sea echoes with their cheers. 


End file.
